THE   FOREST  ON  THE   HILL 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

THE   HAVEN 

THE   BEACON 

WILD  FRUIT 

DE METER'S  DAUGHTER 

THE  THIEF  OF  VIRTUE 

TALES  OF  THE  TENEMENTS 


THE     FOREST 
ON    THE    HILL 


BY 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  LANE  COMPANY 

MCMXII 


Copyright,    1912,   by 
EDEN    PHILLPOTTS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFOHNU 
9AATA  BARBARA 


TO 

COLONEL  D.  D.  CUNNINGHAM.  F.R.S. 

WITH   SINCERE   REGARD 


THE    FOREST    ON    THE    HILL 

BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  I 

Where  certain  high-climbing  hills  take  leave  of  the  low- 
lands, there  spread,  beneath  the  eastern  frontiers  of  Dart- 
moor, extended  ranges  of  forest ;  and  amid  these  far- 
flung  groves,  lifted  mightily  upon  the  bosom  of  her  proper 
mount,  crested  with  the  ragged  wilderness  and  bovmd  on 
north  and  south  by  little  valleys,  where  streamlets  draw 
a  silver  thread  through  the  fringes  of  her  robe,  lies 
Yarner  —  a  fair  kingdom,  peopled  by  many  myriads  of 
the  unconscious. 

Approached  at  the  epact  of  a  vanished  year,  and 
viewed  from  the  naked  hilltops  before  entering  her  pre- 
cincts, she  shone  at  early  morning  under  hibernal  colours 
brightly,  and  the  low  sun  not  only  gilded  the  drab  and 
iron-grey  contours  of  her  woods,  but  wakened  also  a 
warmth  of  rose  and  purple  therein,  where  spread  the 
growth  of  young  birches  in  a  straggling  stain  amid  the 
more  sober  colours  of  adult  trees.  The  physical  pro- 
portions of  Yarner  were  clearly  manifested  under  these 
conditions ;  the  great  main  mass  bosomed  upon  one 
rounded  hill  in  close-fitting  garment  of  wintry  ash  and 
silver,  warmed  to  russet  and  chilled  to  lead ;  then  on  the 
right  hand  and  on  the  left  the  land  fell  nobly,  descend- 
ing into  deep  ravines,  beyond  which  the  earth  climbed 
up  again.  The  northern  heights  making  abrupt  ascent, 
threw  off  the  last  straggling  arms  of  the  birches  and 
swept  upward  to  the  stark  Moor ;  but  where  southern 

I 


2  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

hills  arose  beyond  the  valley,  there  mingled  pine  and  fir 
in  dim  green  and  blue  that  melted  together  under  the 
dayspring.  Descending  then  upon  Yarner,  after  long 
declivities  of  heath  and  fern,  with  sentinel  spinneys 
standing  like  islands  in  a  sere  sea  of  the  fallen  brake,  there 
appeared  a  broken  hedge  of  earth  and  sprang  a  giant 
company  of  oaks,  whose  arms  touched  here,  laced  there, 
and  so  made  a  cincture  of  many  boughs  for  the  margin 
of  the  wood.  The  scene  changed,  and  the  light  changed, 
as  when  one  enters  some  great,  shadowy  building,  to 
rest  body  and  mind  from  the  din  and  glare  without. 

The  planes  of  the  morning  sunshine  were  broken  up, 
barred  and  scattered  by  branch  and  trunk.  Interspaces 
of  darkness  spread  between  the  floods  of  light ;  and  a 
level  carpet  of  dead,  dry  leaves  was  wrought  into  one 
harmony  of  design  and  diapered  and  fretted  with  deli- 
cate blue  shadow.  Morning  made  music  here,  and  above 
the  prattle  of  animate  life  persisted  an  eternal  murmur- 
ing of  trees.  For  to  them  belongs  a  soul  of  melody, 
born  dryad-like  with  their  birth,  destined  to  endure  while 
their  forest  lyres  shall  stand  for  the  harper  of  the  ages 
to  play  upon.  Their  songs  continue ;  their  silences  are 
but  interval  and  pause  between  the  great  movements  of 
an  everlasting  symphony ;  and  the  orchestra  of  the  trees, 
with  its  melodies,  now  leaf-borne  and  lisping,  now  bough- 
borne  and  fierce ;  now  throbbing  through  the  deep  dia- 
pason of  summer;  now  furious,  shrieking,  lashed  out 
by  tempest  from  the  naked  ramage  of  tree-tops  —  ceases 
never. 

Under  the  greater,  leafless  things  shone  hollies,  and  the 
masses  of  them,  though  aglint  with  fire  and  aglow  with 
fruit,  yet  made  mounds  of  darkness  in  the  winter  light 
of  the  woods.  Through  a  cool  radiance  of  visible  air  — 
the  breath  of  sleeping  earth  —  there  threaded  and  filtered 
the  genial  glow  of  day,  where  sunshine  broke  on  trunks 
and  great  ash-coloured  boles.  Seen  under  the  morning, 
behind  the  lace-work  of  the  woods,  the  farther  hillside 
flung  itself  across  the  east  like  a  cloud  of  shining  smoke 
—  dark  indeed  by  contrast  with  the  sky  above  it,  yet 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  3 

full  of  light,  drenched  in  a  haze  of  opal  air,  spacious  and 
pure,  decorated  with  the  finials  of  the  spruce  and  the 
larch,  where  they  spired  above  a  sapphire  gloom  that 
still  haunted  the  depths  of  the  valley  beneath  them. 

Her  immense  slopes  and  sudden  descents  added  sub- 
limity to  Yarner.  There  lay,  indeed,  within  her  frontiers 
many  a  level  acre,  where  the  trees  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  branch  locked  in  branch;  but  abrupt  declivi- 
ties scattered  the  forest  regions  and  broke  up  their  order, 
so  that  through  the  boughs  of  a  great  oak  one  might 
perceive  the  crown  of  his  neighbour;  or,  in  precipitous 
places,  the  feet  of  some  poised  tree  twining  silver  roots 
vainly  upon  air  above  the  head  of  another  more  safely 
anchored  below.  At  this  season,  in  the  lustrous,  untinc- 
tured  splendour  of  still  mornings,  the  plan  of  the  forest 
was  spread  in  light  upon  the  shining  hills,  and,  seen 
against  the  sunshine,  every  tree  and  harmonious  em- 
brace of  trees,  every  leaf-strewn  glade,  every  heathery 
clearing,  every  pinnacle  and  arch  and  column,  flashed 
nakedly.  Here  were  they  outlined  with  flame,  where 
stood  parent  trunk  and  main  edifice  of  limb;  here  they 
were  scrawled  and  splashed  in  with  nought  but  quiver- 
ing fire  to  the  limits  of  the  lesser  branches  and  feathery 
twigs,  as  they  leapt  in  a  radiant  network  against  the  blue. 
The  forest  roofs  thus  caught  pure  splendour  of  sun- 
light and  irradiated  a  white,  aerial  glitter  that  dazzled 
the  eyes  and  made  them  content  to  seek  the  more  genial, 
more  gentle  glow  of  earth. 

Life  manifested  itself  everywhere,  and  the  diurnal 
creatures  on  wings  and  paws  minded  their  business  above 
and  below.  There  was  a  subdued,  perpetual  noise,  not 
of  singing  but  of  talking  birds.  No  romance  touched 
the  multitudes  —  only  the  stir,  bustle,  chatter  of  every 
day.  They  followed  the  never-ceasing,  necessary  busi- 
ness of  preserving  life  by  hard  work  of  beak  and  tooth 
and  claw.  Food,  food,  and  more  food  was  all  the  matter ; 
food,  food,  and  more  food,  that  each  small  body  might 
keep  well  clothed  with  fur  or  feathers  against  the  as- 
sault  of   the   season.     Some   moved   aloft   in   twittering 


4  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

companies  and  flocked  and  flew  together;  some  fed  in 
the  wet  places  by  stream  side ;  some  were  busy  among 
the  dead  leaves;  some  ransacked  the  earth,  or  the  bark 
of  the  rotting  tree.  Their  food  in  every  case  meant 
the  destruction  of  animate  or  inanimate  life  —  either  liv- 
ing organism  or  the  promise  of  seed.  There  were  acorns 
and  beech  mast  for  the  pigeon,  berries  for  the  thrush 
and  blackbird,  invisible  insects  for  the  snipe  and  wood- 
cock in  the  marsh ;  grub  and  beetle  for  the  great  green 
woodpecker  and  nuthatch,  where  they  explored  branch 
and  bough  and  sent  moss  and  bark  falling  to  earth  from 
aloft.  There  were  cones  for  the  squirrel,  humped  red 
on  the  red  pine  bough  ;  lesser  life  than  his  own  for  the 
raptorial  bird  hawking  at  wood-edge;  for  the  jay,  who 
screamed  and  flashed  from  one  thicket  to  another;  for 
the  halcyon,  perched  like  a  jewel  on  the  dead  branch 
above  stream.  The  folk  made  pattering  and  hopping,  a 
rustle  in  the  dry  leaves  below  and  a  movement  overhead ; 
they  sought  their  meat  for  the  moment  without  knowl- 
edge or  care  of  to-morrow,  or  the  stern  months  to  come, 
through  which  they  must  need  more  and  find  less  as  the 
supply  diminished.  They  lived  in  lusty  rivalry ;  they 
moved  in  their  environment  after  the  ordered  plan  and 
wist  not  whence  or  why  or  whither.  Some  were  fearful 
of  others  and  fled  before  them ;  some  flourished  side  by 
side  and  made  no  quarrel.  But  war  was  the  recognised 
state ;  all  were  fighting ;  none  knew  that  it  was  so.  The 
feeble  met  the  powerful,  and  might  was  pitted  against 
guile,  or  the  single  strength  of  the  strong  challenged  the 
combined  strength  of  the  weak. 

The  spectacle  as  a  whole  transcended  human  values 
in  every  relation ;  it  escaped  all  conscious  measurements 
and  evaded  every  sort  of  human  standard.  The  thing 
in  itself  lay  outside  conception ;  its  significance  could 
nowhere  and  in  no  wise  be  estimated ;  it  flouted  all  con- 
clusions, and  pessimist  and  optimist  alike  were  destined 
to  lose  themselves  in  the  labyrinth  of  it.  Because  of  fu- 
tilities there  is  none  greater  than  that  which  would  esti- 
mate unconscious  life  in  the  terms  of  consciousness,  and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  5 

give  a  human  heart  and  brain  to  those  heartless,  brain- 
less necessities  of  matter  regulating  life  and  death  that 
we  call  "  laws."  Yet  how  impossible  it  is  to  escape  from 
the  anthropomorphic  standpoint  —  for  what  is  left? 
How  can  we  appraise  anything  in  other  values  than  our 
own?  How  can  we  even  formulate  other  values  or  find 
a  lever-point  of  Archimedes  outside  our  world  of  ex- 
perience from  which  to  operate? 

Here  in  the  forest  '*  good  "  and  "  bad  "  meant  less  than 
last  night's  dew.  The  crooked  tree  and  the  straight,  the 
green  tree  and  the  dry,  the  dove  and  the  falcon,  the  fox 
and  the  rabbit  had  their  being  neither  above  nor  below 
"  good  "  and  "  evil,"  but  merely  in  a  category  where  they 
can  never  obtain.  One  might  as  easily  formulate  values 
for  the  rain  cloud  and  the  frost,  the  thunder  and  the 
lightning,  as  for  them. 

Even  to  speak  of  "  the  thing  in  itself  "  is  vain,  since  it 
lies  beyond  human  power  to  arrive  thereat.  No  two 
minds  can  ever  bring  the  same  mirror  of  seeing  to  this 
place ;  no  two,  therefore,  can  carry  the  same  image  away. 
The  true  image  we  know  not.  For  us  it  must  lurk  only 
in  the  forest's  relations  to  all  other  things,  and  amid  those 
relations  must  we  seek  the  truth  if  anywhere.  No  logical 
process,  no  formula  will  help  us  here ;  and  he  who  looks 
at  forest,  or  universe,  through  the  eyes  of  his  intellect 
finds  only  a  riddle  without  an  answer.  Intellect,  indeed, 
serves  but  to  slough  man  in  the  pathetic  fallacy ;  a  forest 
beggars  intellect  at  every  turn,  and  those  who  would 
remotely  comprehend  it  must  enter  through  a  far  older 
and  deeper  psychologic  channel. 

The  "  perpetual  mythology  "  of  words  makes  them  at 
best  an  imperfect  vehicle  for  pure  reason,  and  language 
itself  is  a  bar  to  that  finality  of  statement  science  seeks ; 
yet  words  remain  great  enough  for  the  poet  and  seer 
whose  utterance  soars  above  exactitude.  Even  as  Na- 
ture's self,  they  possess  the  power  to  flash  different  truths 
from  different  facets  to  difl:"erent  minds.  It  is  by  an 
ancient  pathway,  then,  that  we  approach  the  forest,  and 
through  the  deep,  dark  waters  of  being,  through  an  ac- 


6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

cumulated  inheritance  of  feeling  and  emotion,  seek  to 
unite  therewith  in  understanding. 

Feeling  is  the  sole  password  here,  and  by  fellow-feeling 
alone  may  a  man  come  into  sympathy  with  the  observed 
phenomena.  That  is  the  master-key,  if  such  exists ;  by 
that  road  one  stretches  hands  to  the  unconscious,  and 
perceives  how  thin  is  the  partition  separating  the  least 
from  the  greatest.  Here  are  all  our  beginnings  and  sure 
foundations  in  the  nest  of  the  ant,  the  hive  of  the  bee, 
the  hoard  of  the  prevenient  squirrel,  the  holt,  the  dray, 
the  den.  Here  are  migration  and  incursion  and  war 
unceasing,  for  the  cause  of  that  blind,  frantic,  irrational 
will  to  live,  that  actuates  all  unconscious  existence.  Out 
of  it  spring  suspicion  and  fear,  the  gregarious  instinct  of 
the  feeble  folk  and  the  segregation  of  the  strong.  But 
there  are  no  names  for  these  states  in  the  forest ;  one 
cannot  speak  of  "  social  "  and  "  anti-social  "  ;  one  cannot 
condemn  the  solitary  hawk,  or  applaud  the  communion 
of  the  coneys.  One  can  but  perceive  that  weakness  ever 
runs  to  weakness,  that  strength  suffices  itself.  So  did 
the  neolithics  herd ;  but  their  prophet  or  saga-singer  dwelt 
in  a  hut  apart,  and  might  not  be  met  as  common  man  to 
man  in  the  way.  Here,  moreover,  as  in  the  conscious 
world,  there  is  a  tendency  giving  victory  to  the  herd. 
Might  lies  in  numbers,  and  the  finest  things  are  fewest. 

Thinkers  are  coming  to  deny  this  eternal  struggle  of 
adjustment,  and  to  suspect  the  battle  is  more  apparent 
than  real ;  but  no  question  obtains  about  that  here.  Life 
in  the  forest  is  a  ceaseless  fight,  and  the  outcome  of  rigid 
selection  that  extends  from  the  least  insect  to  the  might- 
iest tree.  The  tattered  and  the  ill-shapen  tell  it;  the 
broken  and  perishing  tell  it;  the  eyes  of  bird  and  beast 
tell  it;  the  frost  and  lightning  and  storm  tell  it.  We 
move  through  a  mighty  battlefield,  yet  know  not  what 
constitutes  the  fruit  of  victory,  for  life  itself  is  only  a 
casual  condition  of  all  this  matter.  There  is  perhaps 
more  death  than  life  in  the  forest.  The  acorn  carries 
life  to  earth ;  its  cup  perishes ;  life  makes  a  brave,  beauti- 
ful show,  yet  seems  little  more  than  a  long-drawn,  panic 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  7 

terror  after  all  —  a  rainbow  on  ambient  darkness,  a  run- 
ning away  before  death;  and  the  aged  oak,  yielding  up 
existence  bough  by  bough,  till  vitality  has  retreated  within 
the  last  hiding-place  and  fortress  of  trunk  and  root,  is 
a  symbol  of  all  things. 

But  we  set  out  with  certain  postulates  based  on  com- 
mon sense.  These  once  passed  without  challenge,  and 
the  forest  becomes  an  objective  fact  to  be  stated  in  many 
different  terms.  We  may,  for  example,  regard  it  as  a 
cycle  of  cause  and  effect.  One  selects  first  a  few  more 
data  from  the  innumerable  data  at  disposal  and  perceives 
evidences  of  a  new  driving  force  and  a  superior  activity 
not  before  apparent.  From  the  mass  of  all  that  wills  to 
live,  there  emerges  a  being  above  the  rest  —  one  who  wills 
not  only  to  live,  but  also  to  enjoy  living.  The  others 
exist,  not  knowing  that  they  are  alive;  this  one  is  con- 
scious of  that  paramount  fact,  and  so  must  needs  probe 
all  its  possibilities. 

Now  irregular  open  spaces  appeared  in  the  woods,  and 
among  the  trees  there  extended  long,  winding  scratches 
whereon  nothing  was  permitted  to  grow.  The  bald  places 
lay  like  wales  and  wounds  inflicted  upon  the  forest  by 
violence  or  disease.  They  were  poisoned  ground,  where- 
on no  life  flourished  ;  the  inanimate  creatures  had  deserted 
them ;  the  animate  hasted  across  them  as  quickly  as  they 
might.  To  the  edges  of  these  open  sores  the  hearty 
timber  and  undergrowth  crept  and  the  ivy  bounded  them  ; 
then  stretched  the  gash  and  gaped  the  blot  —  to  show 
where  collided  conscious  and  unconscious,  to  mark  where 
the  last-born  had  conquered  that  older  order  of  primeval 
forest,  and  cut  his  own  way  through  the  midst. 

Natural,  therefore,  were  these  tracks  and  clearings  — 
natural  as  the  timber  they  destroyed ;  and  Pan  might  be 
conceived  as  watching  the  arrival  of  mankind  in  the  wood 
with  absolute  indifference.  The  scroll  unrolls  for  ever; 
and  while  matter  continues  to  be  eternal,  every  form  of 
it  is  ephemeral,  so  that  the  genesis  of  a  new  thing  or  the 
exodus  of  an  old  are  alike  events  of  transient  consequence 
in  themselves.     They  sound,  indeed,  the  watchword ;  they 


8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

proclaim  that  all  is  well  with  the  law  and  that  evolution 
proceeds  upon  its  cosmic  plan;  busy  alike  with  greater 
and  lesser  galaxies,  forgetting  neither  the  sand  of  the 
shore  nor  the  drops  of  the  ocean  nor  the  grey  brain  pulp 
and  matrix  of  conscious  intelligence ;  but  these  passing 
forms  are  of  no  supreme  account:  the  eternal  principle 
alone  is  precious.  And  the  law  reigns  universal ;  it  forges 
every  link ;  while  for  the  length  of  the  chain,  that  doubt- 
less varies  and  depends,  in  the  last  resort,  on  duration 
of  suns,  since  life  is  only  the  unweaned  child  of  fire  and 
water. 

While,  however,  the  clearing  and  the  pathway  hacked 
by  man  through  the  forest  are  of  small  importance  to  the 
wood-god;  while  only  a  dying  dryad  weeps  her  fallen 
oak ;  while  there  is  begotten  but  an  added  interest  and 
fearful  joy  in  Pan's  forest  court  of  fauns  and  fays,  upon 
unconscious  nature  the  coming  of  man  falls  otherwise. 
Fur  and  feathers  retreat  before  him ;  no  thing  trusts  him 
wholly,  and  the  prosperity  or  affliction  of  beast  or  bird 
depends  upon  his  attitude.     Himself  a  predatory  creature, 
he  does  evil  in  the  sight  of  all  other  predatory  creatures, 
and  the  children  of  the  night,  who  might  claim  closest 
kindred  with  him,  suffer  most  severely  at  his  hand.     Ac- 
cident, indeed,  sanctifies  the  fox  and  otter,  since  they 
minister  to  his  happiness,  and  their  hunting  and  their 
death  give  joy  to  him ;  but  the  hawk  and  jay,  the  jackdaw 
and  raven,  the  stoat  and  weasel,  destroy  for  their  life 
what  he  destroys  for  his  pleasure ;  their  will  to  live  chal- 
lenges his  will  to  enjoy;  and  therefore  he  exterminates 
them.     For  the  like  reason  he  fells  the  timber  and  modi- 
fies the  architecture  of  the  forest;  he  reorganises  it  and 
improves  it  on  a  human  value ;  he  plants  certain  trees 
and  evergreen  undergrowths  and  establishes  certain  beasts 
and  birds ;  while  others  he  banishes  and  deports  as  things 
imdesirable  or  worse  than  useless.     Under  a  different 
scale  of  values  he  cuts  down  the  woods,  turns  them  into 
gold  and  silver,  or  lays  the  forest  bare  and  lifts  human 
homes  upon  it.     His  purpose  is  always  the  same:  that 
his  will  to  enjoy  may  be  furthered. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  9 

He  is  the  king  of  the  forest,  and  animate  life  long  since 
learned  that  lesson,  for  generations  of  experience  have 
stored  within  the  intelligence  of  the  greatest  and  least  of 
his  unconscious  subjects  a  distrust  profound.  They  re- 
treat before  him,  and  his  coming  is  marked  by  hurtle  of 
wings  and  hurry  of  feet.  No  triumphal  entry  is  his ;  no 
welcome  awaits  him  here ;  no  wood-dove  alights  upon  his 
shoulder ;  no  green-eyed  catamountain  purrs  and  rubs  her 
spotted  pelt  about  his  knees.  All  wild  creatures  hurry 
out  of  sound  and  sight  and  scent  of  the  king,  because  the 
hereditary  spirit  brooding  in  them  links  him  with  danger 
and  points  to  him  as  another  obstacle  in  the  path  of  their 
will  to  live. 

Finally,  it  may  be  said  that  we  are  not  concerned  with 
those  who  possess  the  forest.  Yarner  herself  and  her 
living  dependencies  are  all  the  matter. 


CHAPTER  II 

There  came  a  new  under-keeper  to  Yarner,  and  he 
brought  with  him  his  mother.  Their  home  lay  beneath 
the  woods,  in  a  valley  where  a  stream  was  caught  and 
spread  into  a  stew-pond.  Round  about  rolled  the  forest 
every  way,  and  the  man  and  his  mother  were  much 
sequestered.  He  had  done  similar  work  for  fifteen  years, 
and  left  a  former  master,  not  for  any  fault,  but  because 
of  refusal  to  oblige  him  in  a  matter  where  the  servant 
stood  at  liberty  to  choose. 

Timothy  Snow  was  a  contemplative  soul,  with  a  meas- 
ure of  intellect  that  would  have  taken  most  men  to  cities. 
But  in  his  case  it  was  allied  with  an  anti-social  instinct 
and  a  love  of  loneliness.  His  character  prospered  best 
under  the  sky;  he  believed  that  Nature  spoke  the  last 
word  on  every  subject  in  the  ear  tuned  to  listen;  he 
found  anodyne  for  all  trouble  among  the  community  of 
the  trees,  and  answer  to  all  questions  within  the  purlieus 
of  them.  Nature,  so  far  as  he  had  marched  along  with 
her,  was  always  right  and  to  be  trusted.  Her  practice 
appealed  to  him  as  uniformly  just,  and  he  honestly  be- 
lieved that  in  no  possible  crisis  of  human  affairs  would 
she  be  found  to  fail.  His  uneventful  life  had  led  him  to 
these  conclusions,  and  the  accidents  of  his  secluded  call- 
ing and  personal  instincts  had  combined  to  hoodwink  him 
as  to  the  truths  of  existence.  He  was  very  well  satis- 
fied with  his  opinions,  and  believed  (as  the  anchorite  be- 
fore him  for  another  reason)  that  a  man  can  only  live  at 
peace  with  a  clean  soul  by  seeking  solitude  and  eschew- 
ing, as  much  as  may  be,  the  company  of  the  herd.  That 
the  herd's  welfare  is  demanded  of  the  individual :  that  the 
greatest  sacrifice  is  required  from  the  best  endowed  he 
knew  not.     His  mistake  was  to  find  in  the  law  of  Nature 

lO 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  ii 

a  rule  of  conduct  and  a  criterion  of  right.  He  judged 
her  on  a  scale  of  human  values,  approved  her  methods 
and  built  a  code  founded  in  confusion  of  principles.  At 
thirty-five  Timothy  Snow  considered  his  opinions  entirely 
satisfactory,  and  as  yet  no  problem  of  life  had  arisen  to 
break  them  down.  He  scorned  dogma  and  control. 
Justice  was  his  motto,  and  since  mercy  belonged  not  to 
Nature's  red  rubric  in  any  sentimental  sense,  he  held 
mercy  a  danger,  and  could  point  to  a  thousand  human 
instances  of  its  failure.  Mercy,  indeed,  miscarries 
oftener  than  justice  —  and  that  he  knew ;  and  if  he  hated 
anything  it  was  mercy,  and  if  he  resented  anything  it 
was  pity. 

Of  a  nervous  temperament,  yet  strong  in  his  own  con- 
ceit, stiff-necked  and  selfish,  he  had  reached  the  age  of 
thirty-five.  And  now  the  theatre  of  his  work  was 
changed,  and  the  accident  responsible  for  the  change 
had  set  him  thinking. 

Here,  in  Yarner,  was  the  loneliness  he  desired  and  the 
air  he  chose  to  breathe ;  but  life  had  created  a  complexity, 
and  of  the  few  relatives  that  belonged  to  him  the  one 
responsible  for  this  change  required  to  be  considered. 

When  it  became  necessary  for  the  man  to  leave  his 
former  work,  his  mother  had  bethought  her  of  her  dead 
husband's  brother  —  one  Lot  Snow,  who  dwelt  in  the 
little  village  of  Ilsington,  beneath  Dartmoor's  southern 
frontier ;  and  this  man  —  not  unfriendly  to  his  kindred 
and  long  desirous  of  their  better  acquaintance  —  was  able 
to  do  the  hoped-for  thing  and  find  his  nephew  very  ex- 
cellent work  of  the  sort  that  he  desired.  From  his  good 
offices  there  had  arisen  some  obligation,  but  Timothy 
was  reasonable  and  did  not  resent  that.  He  knew  how 
to  take  gifts  in  a  proper  spirit,  and  he  felt  gratitude  to 
his  uncle ;  yet  while  alive  to  the  favour,  he  played  no 
servile  part,  and  did  not  feel  that  his  own  liberty  of 
action  and  judgment  was  involved.  Of  Lot  Snow  he 
knew  little  as  yet,  nor  guessed  at  certain  plans  in  his 
uncle's  head.  For  himself  Timothy  merely  proposed  to 
live  as  he  had  lived,  avoid  further  obligations,  and,  while 


12  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

recognising  his  elder's  right  to  special  consideration,  allow 
no  sentiment  to  trouble  him  and  no  influence  to  modify 
his  own  rules  of  seclusion.  That  the  other  might  make 
demands  upon  him  or  harbour  designs  calculated  to 
upset  all  his  own  ideas  of  a  seemly  and  comfortable  life, 
the  young  man  guessed  not.  He  prided  himself  on  his 
strength  and  reticence  before  mankind ;  he  did  not  fear 
to  rub  shoulders  with  them,  or  shirk  the  loss  or  gain 
resulting  from  that  attrition;  but  he  felt  now  that  while 
it  might  be  necessary  to  see  his  uncle  and  his  uncle's 
friends,  they  must  keep  in  their  proper  places,  and  not 
be  suffered  to  complicate  or  modify  his  own  rule. 

There  was  some  fine  grain  in  this  man's  character. 
Not  for  nothing  did  he  confound  Nature's  processes  with 
right  and  wrong,  and  if  the  balance  of  his  judgment  erred 
and  promised  ultimate  confusion,  there  were  points  where 
it  stood  for  strength.  A  life  may  run  upon  that  road 
and  come  very  safely  to  its  goal  and  terminus ;  but  circum- 
stances alone  can  decide,  and  one  must  be  little  better 
than  company  for  hermits,  hermit-crabs,  and  solitary  apes 
to  find  the  life  and  rule  of  the  wilderness  sufifice  him. 
Naturally  there  were  many  possibilities  hidden  in  the 
keeper  at  which  he  guessed  not.  Nothing  could  have 
made  him  a  hero  or  a  scoundrel,  but  a  latent  germ  or 
two  awaited  only  the  quickening  spring  of  opportunity  to 
surprise  him  in  their  fruition. 

We  find  Timothy  Snow,  then,  with  his  foot  far  ad- 
vanced on  the  threshold  of  adult  manhood ;  his  mind 
stored  dangerously  with  opinions  to  the  detriment  of 
ideas,  his  experience  small,  his  nature  distinguished.  He 
had  come  to  ripe  age  untried,  for  a  recent  ordeal,  that 
would  certainly  have  offered  temptations  enough  to  some 
men,  was  no  trial  to  him.  The  very  proposal  he  resented 
as  an  outrage.  It  awoke  him  to  anger  as  a  threat  against 
liberty,  and  a  gross  proposal  that  should  have  been  im- 
possible from  the  rich  to  the  poor.  The  experience  had 
made  him  self-conscious  and  awakened  class  prejudice. 

In  person  Snow  stood  five  feet  ten,  and  was  of  solid 
build.     From  a  massive  neck  rose  his  head,  and  the  fea- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  13 

tures  were  large  and  regular.  There  was  something  cold 
ahout  his  expression,  and  his  voice  chimed  with  it ;  his 
dark  grey  eyes  were  illuminated  with  intelligence ;  his 
skin  was  brown ;  his  eyebrows  heavy ;  and  between  them 
were  ruled  two  parallel  lines  striking  at  right  angles  upon 
others  that  crossed  the  summit  of  the  nose.  His  face 
was  not  animated,  and  a  large  black  moustache  did  not 
conceal  the  nervous  mouth.  He  wore  his  hair  very  short, 
and  so  close  to  his  head  that  it  revealed  the  contours  of 
the  skull.  An  instinct  rare  in  his  class  made  him  particu- 
lar concerning  his  body.  He  kept  it  very  clean,  and  hated 
foul  air  and  foul  clothes. 

His  mother  was  a  woman  of  sixty,  and  other  children 
she  had  none.  She  bore  herself  in  a  reserved,  undemon- 
strative manner,  and  the  home  they  inhabited  together 
seemed  silent  and  cold  to  those  of  more  genial  nature. 
But  they  understood  each  other  very  well.  The  woman 
was  a  Christian,  and,  to  oblige  her,  Timothy  went  weekly 
to  church.  She  knew  the  reason  of  his  going,  and  was 
grateful.  That  he  did  not  think  as  she  did  she  also 
knew ;  yet  the  fact  troubled  her  little.  He  was  an  honest 
man  and  a  plain  dealer,  as  his  father  had  been  before 
him,  and  the  mother  felt  no  concern  for  her  son.  Neither 
did  she  regret  his  reserve  and  habitual  silence.  She  kept 
his  house  and  knew  herself  vital  to  his  comfort.  She 
was  not  a  woman  of  any  imagination,  and  her  nature  left 
her  content  with  things  as  they  were. 

Mother  and  son  were  satisfied  with  each  other,  and 
felt  little  need  for  much  speech  or  ready  exchange  of 
opinions  that  had  been  natural  in  the  circumstances. 
Silent  were  their  hours  together  ;  and  even  when  Timothy 
left  his  home  by  night,  to  guard  the  game  and  face 
possible  dangers,  his  mother  showed  no  solicitation,  for 
she  knew  right  well  that  such  a  display  would  have 
been  resented.  He  preached  Nature  to  her,  and  she 
listened  patiently,  but  argued  sometimes  against  him  from 
the  standpoint  of  her  own  faith,  Sarah  Snow  was  a  big, 
grey  woman  who  went  slowly,  breathed  stertorously,  and 
minded  her  own  business  and  her  boy's.     In  her  heart 


14  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

she  hoped  much  from  the  change  of  fortune ;  because  Lot 
Snow,  her  son's  uncle,  was  a  prosperous  and  childless 
bachelor,  and  she  suspected  that  the  nature  of  Timothy 
would  please  and  satisfy  this  man.  She  saw,  however, 
dangers;  but,  none  the  less,  she  believed  that  her  son 
would  come  presently  to  recognise  the  gulf  that  yawns 
between  abstract  rectitude  and  practical  conduct.  That 
he  would  find  a  way  to  bridge  this  gulf  without  tribula- 
tion or  temporal  loss  she  also  trusted. 


CHAPTER  III 

Timothy  Snow  went  through  a  grey  gloaming  in  mid- 
December,  where  Yarner  fell  and  climbed  again  to  the 
eastern  wood  and  a  little  river  ran  through  the  valley. 
On  one  side  swept  down  oak  and  beech,  all  wan  and  sub- 
dued, while  darker  still  on  the  other  ascended  thick  groves 
of  fir.  Beside  them,  upon  the  hill,  thrust  up  the  ruined 
shaft  and  shattered  buildings  of  a  deserted  copper  mine. 

The  stream  in  the  bottom  ran  shouting  and  flashing 
very  white  through  the  dusky  evening  hour.  It  broke  the 
hush  and  silence,  and  wound  amid  the  woods  under  a 
wreath  of  many  ferns.  Osmunda  royal  crowned  the 
lesser  things,  but  the  great  fronds  of  it  had  turned  to  a 
pale  golden  tint.  While  yet  the  lady  fern,  the  spleenworts 
and  the  hart's-tongue  were  green  and  showed  small  trace 
of  death,  the  king  fern  had  passed,  and,  like  great  dim 
lamps,  stood  beside  the  stream  and  shone  with  lemon 
light  through  the  deepening  darkness  of  the  underwood. 

There  was  a  gate  here,  fastened  with  a  piece  of  barbed 
wire,  and  at  this  barrier  appeared  a  girl.  To  have  climbed 
the  obstacle  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  for  the  lithe, 
strong  creature,  but  her  purpose  was  different.  She 
loitered  and  listened.  Then  she  saw  Snow  approaching, 
and  began  to  shake  the  gate. 

"  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  ope  this  for  me  ?  "  she 
said  as  he  arrived ;  but  his  answer  was  short. 

"  I  made  it  fast  once  for  all  and  can't  open  it  no  more." 

"  Oh  dear !  "  she  cried,  and  pretended  much  concern. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  anyway  ?  " 

"  I  was  going  across  the  wood  to  see  a  friend  of  mine 
who  lives  beyond." 

They  stood  on  either  side  of  the  gate,  and  he  looked  at 
the  speaker.     She  was  very  fair,  and  of  a  type  that  ar- 

15 


i6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

rested  man.  She  regarded  liim  in  glimmering  side 
glances ;  her  large  lips  moved  —  now  tightened,  now  re- 
laxed. They  were  never  passive,  and  ever  pouted  in 
doubt,  or  opened  to  laugh ;  but  they  were  of  a  beautiful 
shape  and  colour.  Her  grey  eyes  shone  in  the  gloaming, 
and  every  line  of  her  was  challenging.  Her  lips  seduced 
and  spoke  a  language ;  her  neat,  prominent  breasts  were 
provocative.  She  was  tall,  and  stood  now  with  her  arms 
crossed  on  the  gate  and  one  foot  raised  to  rest  on  the 
lowest  bar.  She  wore  a  straw  hat,  a  piece  of  brown  fur 
round  her  neck,  and  a  dress  of  plum  colour.  The  fur 
made  a  sharp  contrast  with  her  own  pale  locks. 

"  There's  no  right  of  way  here,  though  everybody  ap- 
pears to  think  so,"  said  Timothy.  He  carried  a  gun 
over  his  left  shoulder,  and  his  right  hand  was  in  the 
pocket  of  his  velveteen  jacket. 

"  The  last  keeper  —  Mr.  Redstone  —  didn't  make  no 
fuss." 

"  No ;  that's  why  he  lost  his  billet.  I've  got  to  undo  a 
lot  that  man  did,  and  the  first  thing  is  to  let  people  know 
Yarner's  a  private  wood.  And  Kingdon,  the  head-keeper, 
wills  it  so." 

She  was  studying  his  face  closely,  while  apparently 
looking  in  every  other  direction.  She  smiled  deliciously 
and  her  teeth  flashed. 

"  Well,  you  won't  turn  me  back  this  time,  Mr.  Snow, 
will  you?  I  come  from  Ilsington,  and  'twill  take  me  a 
month  of  Sundays  to  tramp  back  and  go  round  by  the 
Moor  road." 

"  You  can  pass,  then :  but  understand,  there's  to  be  no 
more  of  it.  And  please  tell  your  friends  that  there'll  be 
trouble  for  people  here  if  there's  any  more  trespassing." 

"  Oh  my !  "  she  said,  "  that's  a  poor  look-out.  You're 
going  to  be  as  sharp  as  your  old  uncle." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  my  uncle  ?  "  he  asked,  but 
not  as  one  interested. 

"  More  than  you  do,  seemingly.  He's  clever  and  rich 
and  hard.     Aly  father's  a  friend  of  his." 

"  And  who  might  you  be.  then  ?  " 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  17 

"  Oh,  I'm  of  no  account,""  she  answered. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  you  was;  but  you've  got  a  name?  " 

She  gasped.  Her  interest  tightened.  But  she  did  not 
answer  his  question. 

'*  Yes,  Lot  Snow  is  the  hard  sort,  and  will  have  his  own 
way,  willy  nilly.  I  daresay  you  know  that  much  about 
him?" 

*'  Minds  his  own  business,  I  reckon." 

"  Yes  —  minds  it  well.  He  got  yovi  this  job,  didn't 
he?" 

Timothy  considered.  He  hated  gossip  and  chatter. 
While  he  reflected,  the  girl  spoke  again. 

"  Yes,  I  know  he  did.  But  he's  not  the  sort  to  do  any- 
thing for  nothing.  You're  beholden  to  him,  and  you'll 
find  that  out." 

The  man  stared  at  her. 

"  What  idle  chatterbox  are  you  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Not  a  chatterbox  at  all,  only  a  kind-hearted  girl. 
But  I  won't  waste  no  more  of  your  time,  and  I  won't  come 
again." 

"  No,  I  shouldn't." 

"  You're  like  old  Lot  —  haven't  got  no  use  for  women, 
seemingly.  'Tis  his  rude  boast  that  he's  never  wanted 
'em  since  he  was  weaned." 

"  I  don't  blame  him." 

"  No ;  but  maybe  you  will  presently.  He  never  mar- 
ried, but  would  it  surprise  you  very  much  to  know  that 
he's  wishful  for  you  to  wed?" 

Timothy  made  a  gesture  of  surprise  combined  with 
anger.  He  never  swore,  but  an  occasional  fierce  expira- 
tion of  air  through  his  nostrils  stood  with  him  for  an 
expletive. 

"  What  next,  I  wonder !  " 

She  enjoyed  the  sound  of  his  impatient  snort,  it  gave 
her  a  little  thrill  of  pleasure. 

"  Why,  next,  no  doubt,  he'll  tell  you  about  it.  Don't 
think  I'm  in  his  secrets.  I  wouldn't  like  to  be,  for  that 
matter,  because  he's  said  to  do  some  rather  horrid  deeds 
sometimes.     But  my  father  knows  him  very  well." 


i8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  I'm  hearing  things !     And  why  is  all  this  to  be  ?  " 

"  For  land.  You'll  come  into  your  uncle's  fortune,  no 
doubt,  if  you  behave  to  please  him.  There's  land  joins 
his,  and  his  hope  and  prayer  is  that  a  ring  fence  should  go 
round  two  properties  some  day.  And  he  thinks  'twill  be 
an  easy  matter,  for  you've  only  got  to  wed  a  certain, 
harmless  woman." 

Snow  snorted  again. 

"  Did  he  send  you  to  break  this  to  me?  " 

"  Good  Lord,  no !  He'd  be  properly  savage,  I  reckon, 
if  he  thought  I'd  mentioned  it,  or  if  he  even  knew  I 
knew  it.  'Tis  a  mighty  fine  secret,  no  doubt,  as  he'll 
break  to  you  some  day  when  he  thinks  the  time  has 
come." 

"  He  don't  know  me  yet." 

"  And  you  don't  know  him." 

The  man  stood  silent  for  some  moments  and  reflected 
on  his  recent  past.  It  seemed  as  though  it  were  to  be 
echoed  again  and  repeated  in  the  immediate  future.  He 
felt  troubled,  annoyed,  even  outraged,  that  his  afifairs 
should  be  in  the  knowledge  of  a  strange  and  flippant  girl. 
That  somebody,  who  was  unknown  to  him  until  this 
moment,  should  reveal  these  startling  plans,  caused  him 
active  indignation.  He  forgot  the  woman  responsible  for 
his  experience,  and  strode  off  suddenly  without  more 
words. 

"  Hold  on !  "  she  cried.  "  Where's  your  manners  ? 
What  about  this  gate  ?  " 

"  Climb  over, "  he  answered,  without  looking  back. 
"  You're  spry  and  limber  —  a  chit  like  you.  And  mind 
you  don't  come  here  no  more." 

"  Well,  I  never !  That's  a  poor  return  for  all  I've  told 
you." 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  tell  me ;  and  'tis  all  rubbish  and 
nonsense,  anyway." 

Their  voices  grew  louder  as  the  distance  between  them 
increased. 

"  You  wait  and  see,  and  then  you'll  be  sorry  for  being 
so  rude." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  19 

To  this  he  did  not  answer,  and  the  sound  of  his  feet 
soon  died  as  he  descended  the  coomb  towards  his  home. 

First  the  girl  laughed  to  herself,  and  then  she  grew 
sober  and  thoughtful.  She  rested  her  cheeks  on  her 
hands  at  the  top  of  the  gate  and  considered  the  man 
carefully. 

Presently  she  moved,  but  made  no  effort  to  climb  the 
gate.  Instead,  she  retraced  her  steps  and  mounted  by 
the  footpath  she  had  descended. 

She  came  from  Ilsington,  and  in  a  lane  nigh  her  native 
village  a  man  met  her.  He  was  loafing  there,  and  evi- 
dently expected  her. 

"  Hast  seen  him  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

They  walked  side  by  side  silently,  and  the  man  waited 
for  his  companion  to  speak.  He  was  tall  and  of  a  well- 
drilled  carriage  —  a  policeman,  for  the  moment  off  duty. 
Frederick  Moyle  had  a  fair  face,  an  immense  flaxen  mous- 
tache, and  pale  blue  eyes.  He  had  the  light  eyebrows 
and  eyelashes  that  usually  indicate  a  sly  man.  He  was 
six-and-twenty,  and  of  a  cunning,  cowardly  disposition. 
Under  an  imposing  physique  he  hid  craft,  but  no  courage. 
He  loved  the  girl  who  now  walked  beside  him,  but  he 
feared  that  his  love  was  a  hopeless  matter.  She  also 
knew  it,  though  she  liked  Mr.  Moyle,  as  she  liked  all 
personable  men ;  but  she  did  not  like  him  well  enough  to 
dismiss  him  and  free  his  wounded  heart  of  her  friend- 
ship. He  was  useful  and  amusing,  so  she  let  him  hang 
on. 

"  Well,  Audrey,  what  about  the  chap  ?  " 

"  He's  a  terror." 

"  So  I've  heard.     Can't  give  a  civil  answer." 

"  I  shook  him  up,  though.  When  he's  angry,  he  doesn't 
swear :  he  snorts  like  a  bull.  He's  an  excitable  man. 
He'd  be  an  ugly  chap  to  quarrel  with,  I  daresay." 

"  As  ugly  as  he  is  to  look  at  ?  " 

"  No ;  he's  not  ugly,  Fred  —  you  can't  say  that." 

"  I  call  him  vigly.     I  hate  they  black  men." 

"  Because  you're  fair  as  a  white  mouse  yourself." 


20  THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL 

"  You  set  him  dancing  after  you,  of  course?  " 

Slie  laughed. 

"  Oh  dear  no.  He  hadn't  got  no  use  for  me.  Warned 
me  out  of  the  woods!  And  when  I  hinted  that  old  Lot 
Snow  had  ideas  for  him,  he  sniffed  properly.  '  Doesn't 
know  me  yet,'  he  said.  'Twill  be  a  lot  of  fun  to  watch 
what  happens  between  uncle  and  nephew.  He's  a  master- 
ful man  —  rather  my  sort,  I  believe." 

The  other  pulled  at  his  famous  moustache. 

"  You'll  be  just  a  counter  in  the  game,  no  doubt." 

"  Shall  I  ?  Not  much  !  I  play  my  own  games.  You 
ought  to  know  that.  If  it  amuses  me  to  make  the  chap 
love  me,  I'll  make  him.  I've  got  to  see  him  by  daylight 
first." 

"  He  wasn't  bowled  over  exactly,  then  ?  " 

"  No,  he  wasn't.  I  asked  him  to  ope  the  gate  for  me, 
and  he  told  me  to  climb  over.  That's  good  for  a  start. 
Not  like  you,  and  another  here  and  there,  who  run  if  I 
whistle.     You  couldn't  whistle  that  man." 

"  You'll  get  round  him,  of  course,  if  you  want  to.  But 
will  you  want  to  ?  He's  a  glum,  silent  creature,  and  he'd 
be  jealous  as  the  devil  if  he  did  fancy  you;  and  where 
would  you  be  then  ?  " 

She  considered  this. 

"  A  jealous  husband  wouldn't  be  much  use  to  me,  I 
grant.  I'm  going  on  living  —  even  after  I'm  married. 
You  won't  catch  me  just  behaving  like  a  sheep  for  any 
man,  I'd  soon  have  enough  of  childer,  too.  There's  bet- 
ter fun  in  the  world  than  bringing  childer  into  it.  You 
can  see  that  easy  enough,  if  you've  got  eyes." 

"  Right !     How  we  do  think  alike !  " 

"  You  say  so,  but  'tis  all  pretence  in  you.  You're  the 
same  as  other  men  at  heart,  and  if  you  was  married,  you'd 
go  on  having  a  barrow-load  and  say  'twas  the  work  of 
the  Lord  to  bring  'em,  and  the  business  of  the  parish  to 
look  after  'em.  Selfish  devils  you  are  —  all  of  you  — 
cunning  as  snakes.  But  no  man  shall  ever  knock  my  fine 
body  to  pieces.  I  didn't  go  to  a  proper  school  for  noth- 
ing." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  21 

He  sighed  admiringly. 

"  You're  a  wonder !  Oil,  my  stars,  if  you  was  to  take 
me,  wiiat  a  fine  time  you'd  iiave!  But  a  sour,  cranky 
man !  'Tis  madness.  You  never  would  bide  along  with 
him  a  year." 

"  There's  two  simple  things  waiting  for  me  to  do  in 
the  world,  "  she  answered,  "  and  one  is  to  have  as  good  a 
time  as  ever  I  can  have  in  it,  and  t'other  is  to  please  father. 
I  don't  know  that  I  shall  be  able  to  do  both,  but  I  hope 
"twill  be  possible.  He's  been  a  very  good  father  to  me, 
and  I'm  his  only  child,  and  I  shall  have  all  he's  got  some 
day.  But  life's  life,  and  I'm  not  going  to  marry  but  to 
please  myself." 

He  sighed. 

"  Well,  you  know  you've  got  a  friend  till  death  in  me," 
he  said. 

"  That's  all  right.  And  now  you'd  better  clear  out ; 
I'm  going  home  this  way." 

They  had  reached  a  white  gate  from  which  ran  a  road 
through  meadows.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  glimmered 
lights  on  the  threshold  of  a  little  wood.  It  was  Middlecot 
Farm,  Audrey  Leaman's  home.  She  prepared  to  leave 
the  policeman,  and  he  reminded  her  that  she  had  promised 
to  go  for  a  walk  with  him  on  the  following  Sunday  after- 
noon. 

"  I'll  think  about  it,"  she  said.  "  They'll  say  we're 
keeping  company  next.  And  if  I  hear  anything  of  that, 
'tis  good-bye  to  you  very  quick,  and  you  know  it." 

Mr.  Moyle  sank  gloomily  down  the  hill  to  the  village ; 
the  girl  proceeded  homeward.  She  whistled  when  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  house,  and  a  Great  Dane  leapt 
out  to  meet  her.  The  hound  exhibited  violent  joy  at 
her  arrival,  rose  up,  put  his  paws  upon  her  shoulders, 
and  licked  her  face.  It  was  a  fiction  with  Audrey  that 
"  Battle  "  understood  and  shared  her  secrets. 

She  talked  to  him  now,  and  made  it  clear  that  the  brute 
stood  in  her  eyes  on  much  the  same  plane  as  policeman 
Moyle. 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  hamlet  of  Ilsington/  famous  for  ever  and  famous 
only  as  the  birthplace  of  that  mighty  Elizabethan  decadent, 
John  Ford,  lies,  a  straggling  litter  of  cottages,  amid  the 
southern  foothills  of  Dartmoor.  In  the  midst,  springing 
up  above  its  neighbour  roofs  of  thatch  and  slate,  rises  a 
church  tower,  and  houses  press  to  the  confines  of  the 
burying  ground. 

Beside  the  entrance,  so  near,  indeed,  that  it  supported 
one  side  of  the  lichgate,  stood  the  home  of  Lot  Snow. 
It  faced  the  highway,  and  to  the  rear  the  graves  crowded 
so  closely  that  from  one  low  window  a  man  might  thrust 
out  his  hand  and  touch  a  tomb.  Here  were  the  genera- 
tions of  the  Snows  buried,  and  there  was  a  saying  in 
Ilsington  that  the  clan  all  stood  within  a  step  of  their 
graves.  The  house  was  thatched,  and  the  low  eaves  pro- 
jected above  the  upper  windows.  Ivy  mantled  it ;  a  few 
cottage  flowers  grew  before  the  door;  the  granite  lintels 
and  posts  of  the  gate  were  whitewashed  that  they  might 
be  seen  on  dark  nights. 

Lot  Snow  and  his  sister  dwelt  here.  Neither  had  mar- 
ried, and  she  kept  house  for  him,  and,  despite  her  years, 
preserved  physical  energy.  She  was  seventy  —  a  grey, 
bent  woman,  sane  and  silent.  Her  little  sleeping  chamber 
looked  out  upon  the  graves,  and  she  was  wont  to  say  that 
her  mother  and  father,  whose  dust  reposed  not  twenty 
feet  from  her  own  sleeping-place,  kept  watch  upon  her. 

Lot  was  ten  years  younger  than  Sibella  Snow,  and  more 
active  in  mind  than  body.     He  had  attained  to  great  bulk, 

1  To  the  antiquary,  the  "  poppy-headed "  bench-ends  in  St. 
Michael's  Church  might  also  constitute  fame,  since  this  outHne 
of  oak  carving  from  the  fifteenth  century  is  almost  unique  in  the 
west  country,  though  common  elsewhere. 

22 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  23 

and  exercise  was  irksome  to  him,  but  he  allowed  no 
physical  disability  to  handicap  him  in  pursuit  of  his  ends. 
He  was  rich,  and  had  many  irons  in  the  fire.  Land 
hunger  belonged  to  his  nature  as  the  ruling  passion  of  it, 
and  grew  by  what  it  fed  on.  The  face  that  surmounted 
his  great  body  was  peculiar,  for  characteristics  clashed 
there.  A  pendulous  jowl  and  rather  bestial  mouth  sub- 
tended bright  black  eyes  —  keen  and  hard.  Above  them 
the  eyebrows  had  coarsened  with  age,  and  were  now  rough 
and  full  of  long  straggling  hairs.  They  worked  loosely, 
and  could  crowd  down  upon  his  eyes  or  lift  into  the  mid- 
dle of  his  forehead.  While  Audrey  Leaman,  the  girl  in 
whom  Mr.  Snow's  interest  was  at  present  so  largely 
centred,  had  cultivated  woman's  supreme  weapon,  the 
smile,  till  it  touched  the  indifferent  and  dazzled  the  sus- 
ceptible male.  Lot  Snow  had  brought  the  frown  to  its 
most  tremendous  development,  and  could  assume  a  feroc- 
ity of  feature  that  made  children  cry  and  men  silent  to 
look  upon  him.  The  expression  was  often  false,  and  re- 
flected no  just  image  of  his  mind ;  but  those  who  saw  it 
were  not  physiognomists  and  read  it  literally.  They 
missed  the  furtive  eye  and  trembling  lower  lip  that  spoilt 
the  illusion.  Lot  found  that  to  assume  wrath  was  better 
than  to  feel  it ;  therefore,  behind  a  mask,  which  alarmed 
or  angered  others,  he  kept  cool  with  advantage  to  him- 
self. A  large,  white,  clean-shaved  face  he  had ;  a  sharp 
nose  was  stuck  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  on  the  great  up- 
heaving forehead  above,  his  eyebrows  wandered  like  two 
black  clouds.  His  voice  was  thick  and  his  throat  chronic- 
ally charged  with  mucous,  so  that  he  usually  coughed 
and  hawked  before  speaking.  The  character  of  the  man 
was  concealed  by  his  flesh.  One  expected  this  ursine 
shape  to  hide  a  disposition  that  matched  it,  but  the  truth 
of  him  happened  otherwise.  He  was  a  man  of  energetic 
and  swift  mind;  he  loved  money,  and  worked  hard  for 
it ;  he  coveted  power,  and  clung  to  it  when  acquired. 

His  main  estate  adjoined  that  of  his  neighbour,  Willes 
Leaman  of  Middlecot,  and  these  men,  of  like  ambitions 
and  desires,  had  long  sought  for  means  by  which  their 


24  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

properties  might  presently  merge  and  be  stablished  on 
sure  foundations,  to  endure  when  their  time  was  past. 
They  were  human  and  reasonable;  they  indulged  in  no 
preliminary  triumph  before  the  promised  fruition  of  their 
schemes ;  but  circumstances  at  last  combined  to  realise 
their  ambitions,  for  Lot  Snow,  by  dint  of  some  labour, 
had  won  for  his  nephew  a  very  admirable  position  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  himself.  It  was  not  his  first  attempt 
to  do  so;  twice  he  had  endeavoured  to  attract  Timothy 
Snow  nearer,  but  the  younger  man  declined  previous 
proposals.  Then  he  found  himself  without  work,  ac- 
cepted Lot's  good  offices,  and  was  now  established  at 
Yarner  under  a  new  master  who  already  recognised  his 
value. 

There  came  a  Sunday  when  Timothy  and  his  mother 
went  to  Ilsington  to  eat  their  dinner  with  their  relatives. 
After  the  meal.  Lot  proposed  to  sound  his  nephew  as  to 
the  future  and  reveal  a  little  of  his  own  plans.  He  feared 
no  hindrance,  for  the  thing  he  proposed  was  of  a  nature 
to  rejoice  any  young  man. 

During  dinner  Lot  rated  his  nephew. 

"  Jimmery !  You'll  suit  Aunt  Sibella  here  better  than 
you'll  suit  me,  my  boy.  She's  the  dumbest  creature  I 
ever  met,  and,  being  a  silent  woman,  might  go  for  a 
show;  but  she's  old,  and  'tis  life  that  have  struck  her 
dumb ;  you're  different,  and  I'd  like  to  learn  how  is  it  your 
tongue  works  so  stiff?  " 

"  He  never  was  a  talker,"  said  Tim's  mother.  "  I  had 
my  fears  when  he  was  a  little  wee  lad  that  he'd  be  tongue- 
tied.  Took  a  terrible  long  time  coming  to  speech.  'Twas 
the  same  at  school.  '  Never  wastes  a  word,  that  boy,'  his 
master  used  to  say  of  him." 

Old  Sibella  nodded. 

"  'Tis  to  his  credit,  I'm  sure.  There's  too  much  chat- 
tering in  the  rising  generation.  How  they  talk  and  prat- 
tle —  like  noisy  water,  all  about  nothing !  There's  Lot's 
adopted  child,  as  I  call  her,  that  beautiful  flaxen  thing, 
Willes  Leaman's  daughter.  'Tis  like  a  musical  box  to 
hear  her  running  on  —  such  a  prate-apace  as  she  is." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  25 

"  Don't  you  say  nothing  against  Audrey,  my  old  dear, 
because,  well,  you  know,  I  won't  have  it,"  answered  her 
brother.  "  A  fine,  sensible  creature.  'Twas  never  known 
that  such  wit  and  good  looks  went  together  in  a  female 
afore." 

"  You'll  make  my  son  jealous,  Lot,"  said  Sarah  Snow. 

"  Not  I !  The  race  be  to  the  young  nowadays.  They 
feel  no  fear  of  us.  They  ban't  frightened  of  our  brains 
no  more.  They  just  go  their  headlong,  silly  way  —  like 
colts  or  calves.  'Tis  the  same  all  round  —  a  spendthrift 
race.  We  toil  for  them  to  spend  and  enjoy,  and  they  pat 
us  on  the  back  and  say,  '  Well  done,  old  uns !  you  go  on 
working  and  slaving  and  sweating  —  that's  all  you  be 
fit  for.  You  pile  the  money  and  get  underground  out  of 
the  way,  and  then  we'll  come  along  and  scatter  it  and  have 
the  money's  worth ! '  They  don't  think  we  know  the  use 
of  cash.  We'm  only  good  to  grub  it.  'Tis  the  spirit  of 
the  age.  Childer  look  upon  their  fathers  as  money-bags 
nowadays ;  and  all  they  care  is  to  slit  the  bag  so  soon  as 
possible  and  sneak  a  bit  of  the  stuff  inside." 

"  You're  too  hard  on  the  young,"  said  Timothy's 
mother.  "  If  you'd  married  and  got  a  few  boys  and  girls 
of  your  own,  you'd  have  thought  dift'erent." 

"  H  God  don't  send  sons,  the  devil  sends  nephews," 
answered  Mr.  Snow.  "  Besides,  Sarah,  you  very  well 
know  that  you're  the  only  woman  ever  I'd  have  wed.  But 
you  must  needs  like  my  brother,  Timothy,  better.  Well, 
I  don't  blame  you  for  that.  He  was  a  very  fine  chap, 
though  he  hadn't  such  good  intellects  as  me." 

"  Not  for  making  money ;  but  he  was  a  great  reader 
and  thinker.     He  was  cleverer  than  you,  Lot." 

"  Cleverness  is  what  cleverness  does.  I  haven't  over- 
much regard  for  they  wonderful  men  who  be  always  going 
to  set  the  sieve  afire,  but  never  do.  We  see  a  mighty 
gert  acorn  and  say  what  a  terrible  fine  oak  tree  'twould 
make ;  but  it  don't  get  planted,  and  it  don't  start,  and  it 
don't  even  get  ate  by  an  honest  pig,  so  'tis  useless  and 
unavailing  and  rots  for  all  its  promise.  Now  this  here 
chap  and  his  gamekeeping  —  I  mean  you,  Timothy  —  well, 


26  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

gamekeeping's  all  very  well,  but  my  only  nephew  have  a 
right  to  think  of  a  higher  walk  in  life  presently,  and  when 
I  got  Sir  Percy  Champernowne  to  let  you  have  young 
Redstone's  vacant  job,  I  didn't  mean  that  you  was  to  stop 
in  it  for  evermore." 

"  I'm  very  well  content.  I  know  the  work  and  can 
do  it." 

"  Of  course  —  else  you  wouldn't  be  there.  But  you've 
got  your  ambitions,  I  suppose  ?  We  Snows  are  a  pushing 
race.  You  don't  want  to  be  rearing  birds  for  another 
man  to  shoot,  all  your  life,  do  you  ?  Why,  certainly  you 
do  not.  You  must  look  forward,  and  I  be  going  to  show 
you  which  way  to  look." 

The  younger  man  put  down  his  knife  and  fork  and 
wiped  his  mouth  with  his  handkerchief.  Then  he  spoke 
deliberately. 

"  You  don't  understand  me.  Uncle  Lot  —  not  yet.  I'm 
the  sort  as  must  run  my  own  way  and  carry  out  my  own 
life.  I've  thought  a  good  bit  about  things,  and  I'm  very 
well  content  to  do  the  work  I'm  called  to  do.  It  suits  me. 
It's  silent  and  lonely ;  and  I'm  silent  and  lonely  by  nature, 
and  I  like  it  best  so.  You've  got  me  just  the  billet  I 
wanted,  and  much  I  thank  you  for  it ;  but  don't  you  be 
busy  no  more  on  my  account.  I'm  not  hungry  for  money, 
else  I  wouldn't  have  been  a  gamekeeper.  Little  is  enough 
for  my  needs  and  my  mother's.  The  thing  is  to  be  free 
all  round  in  this  world,  and  only  the  poor  can  be  that.  I 
wouldn't  change  with  you  for  anything.  Life's  the  only 
stuff  I'm  greedy  for.  I  want  to  have  life  and  lots  of  it; 
but  I  don't  want  money,  nor  lands,  nor  nothing  like  that. 
Don't  think  me  uncivil." 

Lot  laughed. 

"  You'm  so  green  as  Yarner  will  be  next  spring,"  he 
said ;  "  the  woods  have  kept  your  wits  young  and  unripe. 
'Tis  time  you  came  out  of  'em  —  to  polish  your  brains 
among  the  people.  They'll  teach  you  more  than  the  trees 
and  birds." 

"  I've  got  my  ideas  of  how  I  want  to  spend  my  life. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  27 

Work's  the  thing.  I  know  what  it  means  to  earn  money, 
and  I'm  hke  you  there:  I'd  sooner  earn  than  spend." 

"  Well  said  —  so  far  as  you  go,  Tim.  There's  more 
fun  to  be  got  out  of  earning  than  spending,  if  you're  built 
like  me ;  and  if  you  feel  the  same,  there's  hope  for  you. 
But  when  you  say  you  know  what  it  is  to  earn  money,  you 
speak  outside  truth,  my  lad,  owing  to  your  narrow  view 
of  things  and  youthful  nature.  No,  you  know  what  it  is 
to  earn  your  living  —  that's  all ;  and  that  ban't  the  same 
as  earning  money.  That's  the  lowest  branch  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  the  stone-breaker  and  hedge-tacker  do  that.  But 
their  end  is  the  same,  and  so  soon  as  they  can  earn  their 
living  no  longer,  to  the  workhouse  they  go.  You  must 
look  into  the  higher  branches  and  make  money  and  save 
it  —  like  me.  And  you  won't  do  that  breeding  another 
man's  game-birds,  or  mooning  about  in  Yarner  with  a 
gun  over  your  shoulder." 

"  You  can't  understand  yet  how  small  my  needs  are, 
uncle." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense !  Small  needs,  small  mind.  You 
must  get  bigger  ideas ;  and  you  might  do  worse  than  come 
to  me  for  'em." 

Timothy  felt  anger  move  in  him,  but  he  showed  no 
spark  of  it ;  instead  he  kept  silence.  To  hear  this  ma- 
terial old  man  scorn  his  view  of  life  and  bid  him  put 
away  childish  things  was  gall.  He  felt  himself  superior 
to  his  uncle  in  every  possible  relation  of  thought  and  ac- 
tivity. He  scorned  the  elder's  base  ideals ;  he  hated  the 
stuffy  atmosphere  of  his  thought.  And  what  he  hated 
still  more  was  the  fact  that  Lot  Snow  would  never  be  able 
to  realise,  or  admire,  or  credit  his  own  lofty  opinions. 
He  —  Timothy  —  so  high  in  his  own  esteem  —  would 
never  be  able  to  make  this  fat,  common  creature  under- 
stand how  fine  and  distinguished  he  was.  The  hopeless- 
ness of  the  possibility  struck  him  now  and  made  him  more 
silent  than  usual. 

Presently  he  was  left  alone  with  Lot  Snow.  Sibella 
and  her  sister-in-law  went  to  the  parlour,  while  the  men 


28  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

stopped  and  smoked  in  the  kitchen,  where  their  meal 
had  been  taken. 

"  What  were  your  ideas  for  my  future,  if  I  may  ask  ?  " 
enquired  the  younger  presently. 

"  My  ideas  are ;  they  don't  belong  to  the  past.  You've 
got  brains,  and  a  man  need  never  despair  of  his  son,  or 
his  brother's  son,  if  there's  brains  to  work  on.  My  idea 
is  this,  young  chap,  that  presently,  when  you  can  leave 
Yarner  decently  —  say  in  a  year's  time  —  you  drop  game- 
keeping  and  take  to  farming.  That's  how  I  began,  and 
look  where  I've  got  to.  Farming  don't  mean  ruination 
yet  —  not  if  you  manure  with  brains ;  and  to  walk  the 
open's  better  than  to  prowl  a  wood,  when  all's  said.  A 
farm  it  shall  be  —  one  of  mine  very  like.  In  fact,  I 
could  put  my  hand  on  the  place.  Not  mine  quite  yet, 
but  very  near  as  good.  'Twill  mean  foreclosure  and  a 
smack  in  the  face  for  an  old  enemy  —  one  of  they  little 
enjoyments  of  life  that  only  cash  brings  along  with  it. 
Yes,  you  turn  farmer  ;  and  then  you  wed  —  the  right  one. 
And,  come  presently,  all  mine's  yours  !  There  —  that's 
the  fine  luck  you've  tumbled  into,  Timothy  Snow  —  and 
you  don't  deserve  a  penn'orth  of  it !  " 

"  I  can't  let  no  man  plan  out  my  life  for  me  like  that, 
Uncle  Lot." 

"  Can't  you  ?     D'you  know  a  better  plan  ?  " 

"  A  plan  that  would  suit  me  better,  I  do  know." 

The  dark  eyebrows  descended  a  little. 

"  You'll  make  me  draw  back  what  I  said  about  brains 
presently.  You  talk  to  your  mother.  She  understands 
what  I  mean.  And  as  for  you  —  you  look  round  and 
consider  real  life  and  the  scant  promise  of  it.  And  find 
out  what  a  plague  it  is  to  be  weak ;  and  what  a  boon  it  is 
to  be  strong." 

"  The  woods  teach  me  that." 

"  Take  the  lesson  to  heart,  then.  Be  one  of  the  strong 
ones  and  stand  alone  — " 

The  other  caught  him  up. 

"  That's  it  —  that's  what  I  do  mean  !  To  stand  alone. 
Is  it  to  stand  alone  to  do  your  bidding  and  take  a  wife  of 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  29 

your  choice  for  the  promise  of  your  cash?  Don't  you 
see  that,  with  my  ideas,  it  wouldn't  pay  me  ?  Would  you 
have  done  it  when  you  was  young?  " 

"  That  I  would !  But  no  such  chance  ever  came  my 
way.  No  man  wanted  to  pour  his  money  into  my  lap 
and  make  my  weakness  into  strength.  Single-handed,  I 
done  it  all.  And,  though  not  one  successful  man  in  a 
thousand  can  say  he  owes  success  to  himself  alone,  I  can 
—  in  sober  truth.  Alone  I  did  it  all ;  but  not  for  choice. 
If  I'd  started  where  you'll  start,  I'd  have  gone  a  mighty 
deal  further  than  ever  you'll  go.  We'll  leave  that  now. 
You  try  to  think  what  it  must  be  to  have  a  clear  five  hun- 
dred pound  of  money  coming  in  every  half-year  —  with- 
out turning  your  hand  over  for  it.  If  you  can  once  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  that,  it  is  any  odds  but  you'll  like 
to  hear  more  about  my  opinions  and  ideas." 

"  You  never  married." 

"  True,  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there.  A  wise  man 
marries  something  else  besides  a  woman.  I  could  have 
married  a  score  of  'em,  but  there  was  nothing  to  'em. 
The  two  women  I  offered  for  in  the  course  of  my  life 
both  had  plenty  along  with  them  —  plenty." 

"  But  they  didn't  want  you  ?  " 

"  Exactly  —  I  hadn't  enough  to  offer  —  not  then. 
Now,  no  doubt,  there's  many  would  like  to  join  forces, 
but  Fm  past  'em  now." 

"  You  want  me  to  marry  a  certain  woman  ?  " 

"I  do —  I  mean  you  to." 

"  'Twas  for  refusing  to  do  that  I  left  my  last  place." 

"  'Tis  a  very  different  case  —  you  can't  compare  'em, 
and  you  know  you  can't." 

"  It  aims  at  a  man's  liberty  and  makes  him  a  slave.  It's 
indecent  to  think  of.     It  can't  happen  nowadays." 

"  Wait  and  see,  and  keep  your  temper  and  don't  call  no 
names.  Now  we'll  go  into  the  parlour,  for  there's  more 
sense  in  your  mother's  little  finger  than  in  your  whole 
head,  Nephew  Timothy.  You  come  and  talk  to  me  so 
often  as  you're  able  and  I'll  enlarge  your  mind.  iVnd  if 
time  offers  I'll  ride  in  your  wood  now  and  then  and  hear 


30  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

your  wood-larning  some  day.  And  then  I'll  show  you 
that  the  wisdom  of  squirrels  be  less  than  the  sense  of 
Lot  Snow,  and  that  'tis  better  to  marry  a  lovely  woman 
and  keep  your  bed  of  a  night  than  walk  a  wet  wood  to 
offer  a  target  to  poachers  or  rheumatics.  Let  your  work 
be  by  day  —  that's  the  time  for  honest  men  to  make  their 
money.  To  prowl  by  night  —  what  is  it  ?  A  policeman's 
job,  and  no  better.  Never  was  a  Snow  a  policeman,  I 
believe," 

Profoundly  dissatisfied  the  young  man  left  Ilsington 
presently  and  walked  home  with  his  mother.  She  was 
happy  in  the  company  of  Sibella  Snow,  for  they  had  a 
common  outlook  on  life. 

And  when  they  were  gone,  Lot  Snow  went  to  see 
Willes  Leaman  at  Middlecot,  that  he  might  tell  him  of 
the  talk  with  Timothy. 

The  farmer  was  younger  than  his  friend  —  a  hand- 
some man  in  the  prime  of  life.  He  was  fair,  and  of  a 
hard  disposition  and  grasping  nature.  He  regarded  his 
daughter  as  a  savage  might  have  regarded  a  woman- 
child.  She  represented  something  to  barter  —  a  com- 
modity worth  sheep  and  cattle.  He  yielded  only  to  Lot 
in  affairs,  and  was  somewhat  under  the  dominion  of  a 
personality  stronger  and  subtler  than  his  own. 

Now  he  came  to  the  door  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and 
welcomed  Mr.  Snow. 

"  Come  in,  master.  The  maiden's  out  with  her 
mother,  so  we've  got  it  to  ourselves.  Lord !  how  you'm 
sweating,  though  'tis  such  a  cold  day." 

They  sat  presently  with  a  bottle  of  sloe  gin  between 
them  and  smoked  and  talked. 

"  Well,  and  what  do  you  make  of  him  ?  " 

"  He's  all  right  —  a  strong  man  and  stiff-necked.  I'd 
rather  deal  with  that  sort  than  with  the  young  fellows 
that  be  punched  out  of  putty.  You  can  mould  them  in 
your  own  shape,  but  there's  no  nature  in  'em  to  keep 
your  shape.  You  can't  bake  'em.  This  chap  has  char- 
acter ;  but  he'll  want  handling,  and  he's  worth  handling." 

"  Young  and  inexperienced." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  31 

"  He  is.  A  wild  man  of  the  woods,  you  might  say. 
Pity  as  I  didn't  catch  him  earlier,  for  he'll  take  taming. 
But  have  no  fear.  He'll  pay  for  taming  —  and  that's 
more'n  you  can  say  of  most  of  the  rising  generation." 

"  No  use  for  women,  seemingly." 

"  How  d'you  know  that  ?  " 

"  Audrey  scraped  acquaintance  with  him  down-along, 
and  he  ordered  her  out  of  the  woods  and  wouldn't  ope 
a  gate  for  her." 

Lot  laughed. 

"  Stung  her,  I  warrant !  " 

"  No  —  just  interested  her.  Couldn't  have  fallen  out 
better.  'Twould  be  worth  a  good  bit  to  have  'em 
tokened.  It  might  steady  my  wench  down.  Giddy  as 
a  butterfly,  and  no  sense  of  her  worth.  I'm  afraid  of 
my  life  she'll  go  and  spoil  her  own  market." 

"  He'll  put  the  drag  on  her  very  quick  if  he  gets  to 
care  for  her." 

"  That's  the  rub.  You  can  bring  a  man  to  a  woman, 
but  you  can't  make  him  marry  her." 

"  Oh  yes,  you  can, "  declared  Mr.  Snow.  "  That's 
not  beyond  my  powers,  I  judge.  But  there's  a  deal  to 
be  done  first.  We  must  till  the  ground  and  lay  in  a 
crop.  Would  you  believe  it,  now,  he's  that  natural  that 
he  don't  care  a  brass  f arden  for  money !  " 

"  Not  care  for  money !  " 

"  Flouts  it  —  like  a  lot  as  haven't  got  none.  'Tis  only 
the  poor  turn  up  their  noses  at  cash :  I  never  knew  a  man 
as  had  money  even  pretend  to  scorn  it.  But  we'll  whet 
the  lad's  appetite  come  presently.  'Tis  a  taste  that  grows 
mighty  quick  by  what  it  feeds  on." 

"  Money  can  do  all  things  that  matter,  in  my  opin- 
ion." 

"  It  can ;  but  don't  you  utter  your  opinion.  Wiser  not. 
Timothy's  got  savage  ideas  picked  up  out  of  the  game 
preserves.  A  lot  of  silliness  he  aired  afore  me ;  but 
'twas  a  rare  sort  of  silliness  —  not  the  common  chatter 
of  the  fools.  Puts  me  in  mind  of  his  foolish,  lazy,  dead 
father.     But  he's  not  foolish  at  bottom,  and  he's  not  lazy. 


32  THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL 

We  must  temper  the  man,  for  there's  stutT  in  him  that 
will  stand  tempering." 

"  Teach  him  that  money  can  do  all  things  that  mat- 
ter," repeated  Willes  Leaman. 

"  I'll  let  him  iind  that  out  for  himself,"  answered  the 
other.  "  We'll  bring  about  a  meeting  soon,  and  you 
and  your  wife  and  maiden  shall  feed  along  with  me ;  and 
he  and  his  mother  shall  be  there." 

"  What's  she  like?     Can  you  make  use  of  her?  " 

"  Maybe.  Sarah  Snow's  a  very  sensible  sort  of  crea- 
ture, but  she  don't  influence  him  much  save  in  small 
things.     He  goes  to  church  of  a  Sunday  to  please  her." 

"  Goes  to  church,  does  he?  I'd  better  tell  my  girl  that. 
'T would  serve  to  send  her." 

"  She  ought  to  go,  whether  or  not.  You  ought  to  send 
her ;  and  you  ought  to  go  yourself." 

Leaman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  The  people  would  know  'twas  humbug  if  I  went." 

"  What  matter  ?  Ban't  they  all  there  for  the  same 
reason  ?  It  makes  weekdays  easier  and  pleases  the 
gentlefolk.  They  cry  off  themselves,  but  they  like  to 
think  we  go.  'Tis  a  sign,  in  their  opinion,  that  we  be 
on  the  side  of  Church  and  State  —  where  they  would 
have  us  be.  It  makes  'em  feel  safer,  and  then,  when 
we  come  to  have  dealings  with  'em,  we  reap  the  advan- 
tage. Ha !  ha !  There's  no  sort  of  man  easier  to  fool 
than  a  gentleman !  D'you  know  that,  Willes?  The  real, 
blue-blooded  sort  —  full  of  high  ideas  and  lofty  notions, 
and  weighted  with  their  obligations  to  the  common  peo- 
ple —  why,  they're  as  easy  to  hoodwink  as  an  ostrich 
with  his  head  in  a  sand-heap.  I  like  the  real  thing  when 
I  meet  it.  But  you  can't  get  round  all  the  new-made  rich 
same  as  you  can  the  real  gentlefolk.  They  be  made  of 
our  own  coarse  clay  and  they  fight  with  our  own 
weapons.  They  trust  none  and  believe  in  none.  That's 
how  they've  made  'emselves  into  '  gentlemen  ' ;  but  they'm 
no  more  the  real  thing  than  a  toadstool's  a  mushroom. 
The  real  thing  be  very  near  gone.  There  ain't  no  room 
for  it  in  the  world  nowadays." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  33 

"  I  hate  'em  —  real  or  shoddy,"  said  Willes  Leaman. 

They  talked  politics  for  awhile,  and  revealed  a  very 
thorough  suspicion  of  all  men  in  power.  They  judged 
others  by  themselves,  and  appeared  to  doubt  the  possi- 
bility of  an  action  disinterested,  or  a  motive  pure. 


CHAPTER  V 

There  had  fallen  a  great  snow,  and  all  the  earth  was 
white.  Now,  instead  of  the  customary  pelt  of  sad  colours 
close  woven,  spread  forth  upon  its  hills  and  valleys,  the 
forest  appeared  as  a  thin  and  tattered  veil  drawn  raggedly 
over  the  white  ground  beneath.  Once  more  reality  shat- 
tered appearance,  and  the  thing,  so  dense  and  solid  yester- 
day, to-day  was  marked  by  its  true  tenuity  and  nakedness. 
It  had  seemed  to  conceal  the  ground  from  which  it  sprang ; 
but  the  earth  was  now  whitened  into  stark  visibility, 
and  upon  it  the  forest  spread  —  a  mere,  purple,  trans- 
parent stain.  Only  fir-trees,  bending  under  hummocks 
of  snow,  stood  solidly  forth  from  the  gauze  of  the  shiver- 
ing woods. 

From  north  to  south  there  lumbered  heavy  cloud-banks 
along  the  horizon,  and  the  wind  that  drove  them  struck 
bitterly  upon  all  flesh.  The  upper  sky  was  clear,  while 
earth  still  lay  in  deep  shadow,  over  which  mist  wreaths 
curled  and  crawled  with  long  white  fingers,  and  all  the 
lower  world  of  woods  and  valleys  was  hidden  beneath 
layers  of  flat,  far-spreading  cloud.  But  across  the  top 
of  these  vaporous  seas  rolled  ripples  of  pure  gold  where 
the  sun  broke  in  upon  them  and  set  their  crests  aflame. 
The  cloud-banks  were  edged  and  fluted  with  morning 
fire ;  and  ever  and  anon,  from  among  the  surges  of  their 
waves  where  they  beat  together,  there  rose  up  little  knaps 
and  knolls  of  clustered  trees,  or  barren  ridges,  where 
earth  spired  darkly  upon  the  sunshine  in  islands  ascend- 
ing from  a  sea  of  pearl. 

Above  Yarner  the  Moor  had  vanished  under  the  snow. 
Its  planes  were  smoothed,  its  heights  were  subdued,  and 
from  the  summits  of  the  hills  glittered  the  granite  —  here 
in  tongues  of  white  fire,  where  the  snow  was  banked  to 

34 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  35 

the  tor  crowns ;  here  intensely  black,  where  the  wind  had 
swept  them  bare  again.  The  magic  of  far-flung  dazzling 
whiteness  was  over  all  things.  It  dwarfed  dimensions, 
altered  familiar  perspectives,  and  hid  familiar  marks ;  it 
changed  the  contours  and  relations  of  distant  tors,  lifted 
the  valley  and  lowered  the  hill. 

Under  the  Moor,  Ilsington  church-tower  lifted  out  of 
the  fog,  but  beneath  it  the  lower  lands  were  all  swept 
from  sight;  while  above  it  the  hills  rose  clearer  and 
clearer,  brighter  and  brighter  by  passages  of  white  tilth 
and  fallow  netted  with  dark  hedges,  until  the  wilderness, 
soaring  to  the  horizon,  swept  in  planes  of  snow  and  broke 
in  pinnacles  of  stone  upon  the  blue  of  the  winter  sky. 

Here,  returning  from  business  beyond  Widecombe, 
tramped  Timothy,  the  keeper.  He  had  climbed  from 
his  home  at  dusk  of  dawn  and  was  now  passing  back  to 
it,  under  Hey  Tor  Rock,  across  the  waste. 

The  ponies  were  scraping  with  their  fore-feet  round 
the  furze  clumps  to  get  a  bite  of  moss  and  dead  grass; 
their  thick  winter  coats  shone  chestnut,  tawny,  black,  and 
made  contrast  with  the  tremendous  light  of  the  snow  in 
sunshine;  their  breath  burst  in  little  jets  of  steam  from 
their  nostrils.  The  man  tramped  along  to  the  crunch  of 
his  own  steps.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  till  the 
increasing  scintillation  and  flash  of  the  snow's  innumer- 
able facets  dazed  him  and  he  lifted  them  and  stood  still 
a  moment.  It  was  a  sound,  however,  that  arrested  him, 
for  he  heard  cries  of  trouble.  Not  far  off  a  girl  was 
leading  an  ass  by  its  bridle,  but  the  beast  proved  unruly. 
It  had  backed  between  two  stones  and  was  caught  fast 
between  them. 

Timothy  hastened  forward,  and  the  girl  gave  him  timid 
thanks.  He  would  probably  not  have  looked  at  her  face 
before  proceeding  on  his  way,  but  her  voice  happened  to 
attract  him,  and  he  stopped,  spoke  and  enquired  where 
she  was  going. 

"  To  the  little  house  at  the  top  of  Yarner.  I  live 
there,"  she  said. 

"  I'm  bound  for  Yarner,  too,"  he  answered,  "  so  I  can 


36  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

lead  your  donkey  for  you.     He  won't  play  the  fool  witli 
me.     You  live  along  with  old  Miss  Widger,  no  doubt?  " 

"  Yes,  I'm  her  niece.  Drusilla  Whyddon's  my  name. 
And  you'll  be  Mr.  Snow?  " 

He  nodded,  took  the  halter  from  her  hand  and  led  the 
donkey. 

"  You  might  get  on  it,  if  you  mind  to,"  he  said.  "  'Tis 
heavy  walking  for  a  woman." 

"  Thank  you  —  I'd  sooner  walk." 

The  girl  was  of  good  height  and  well  built.  She  wore 
a  red  wool  coat,  and  her  drab  skirts  were  caught  up  be- 
hind to  keep  them  out  of  the  snow.  Her  face  was  set 
in  a  wool  bonnet  tied  tightly  under  her  chin,  and  so  seen 
it  exhibited  a  rather  pensive,  gentle  countenance  without 
beauty.  The  features  were  regular,  and  the  dark  grey 
eyes  were  distinguished  by  a  rare  intensity,  but  Drusilla 
Whyddon's  charm  did  not  arrest.  Most  men  missed  it. 
Her  voice  was  sweet.  It  vibrated,  spoke  of  swift  emo- 
tions and  a  nature  not  prone  to  deliberation.  She  was 
highly  strung,  and  the  incident  of  the  donkey's  accident 
had  agitated  her. 

Timothy  kept  silence  after  she  declined  to  ride,  and 
his  silence  now  made  her  nervous.  She  looked  at  him 
once  or  twice  and  noticed  the  strength  of  his  shoulders 
and  set  of  his  neck. 

At  last  she  spoke,  and  he  was  glad. 

"I  hope  Mrs,  Snow  keeps  well?  She  was  talking  to 
Miss  Widger  a  bit  ago,  and  feared  the  fish-pond  along- 
side your  house  might  give  her  rheumatism." 

"  She  keeps  well.     I  didn't  know  you  knew  her." 

"  We  thought  it  would  be  neighbourly  to  call  upon  her, 
and  my  Aunt  Jenny  and  me  did  so  back-along." 

"  She  didn't  mention  it.  You  know  all  about  Yarner, 
I  suppose  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  know  it  at  all  times  in  the  year.  You  see,  my 
father  did  Sir  Percy  Champernowne  a  great  service  — 
saved  his  son's  life  in  the  war.  My  father  was  wounded, 
and  died  of  it  a  year  after  he  came  home ;  and  Sir  Percy, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  37 

out  of  gratitude,  let  my  mother  have  this  cottage  rent- 
free  for  her  life.  And  mother,  before  she  died  two 
years  ago,  asked  if  I  might  have  it  till  —  till  I  got  a 
home  of  my  own.  And  Sir  Percy  agreed.  Then  my  old 
aunt  come  up  from  Ilsington  to  live  with  me.  So  —  so 
if  you  find  me  in  the  woods  picking  up  sticks  now  and 
again,  I'll  beg  you  not  to  mind  it,  because  I'm  allowed 
there." 

"  If  you've  got  leave  'tis  no  business  of  mine.  There's 
enough  fallen  wood  in  Yarner  to  light  all  the  fires  in  the 
county." 

"  And  there's  to  be  plenty  of  game  now  you've  come, 
I  hear." 

"  As  to  that  I  can't  promise  much.  I  shall  do  my  best 
to  help  Mr.  Kingdon,  but  there's  a  good  bit  against 
Yarner  for  preserving.  They  are  very  cold  woods  and 
the  birds  will  be  flying.  And  once  they  fly  down  to  the 
in-country,  they  never  fly  up  again.  However,  I'll  be 
able  to  speak  more  about  that  come  presently." 

"You've  turned  a  good  few  back,  I  hear?" 

"  And  shall  do  so.  That's  the  first  thing.  The  last 
man  was  too  easy,  by  all  accounts." 

Drusilla  made  no  answer,  and  her  silence  excited  his 
curiosity. 

"  I  suppose  you  knew  him,  didn't  you  —  John  Red- 
stone?" 

"  Yes,  we  knew  him.  He  was  a  very  kind  man,  and 
loved  for  everything  to  go  easy  and  well." 

"  I  know  the  sort  —  want  to  be  friends  all  round  — 
no  good  for  a  keeper  —  or  anything  else.  If  you've  got 
no  character,  your  friendship  is  of  no  account." 

"  He  had  plenty  of  character  —  a  fierce  man  in  some 
ways,  but  too  kind-hearted  to  be  angry  for  long  at  a 
time.  He  was  a  very  good  man  and  cheerful  till  things 
fell  out  wrong  with  him.  Sir  Percy  was  sorry  to  part 
from  him." 

"  Sir  Percy  Champernowne  has  no  character.  Just  one 
of  they  colourless  creatures  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in 


38  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

his  mouth.  If  he  had  come  of  the  poor,  he'd  be  break- 
ing stones  for  his  living.  'Tis  all  they'd  ever  have 
learned  him  to  do." 

"  He's  very  good  to  his  people  and  very  open-handed. 
I  thought  he  was  a  clever  man,  and  I  knov^  he's  a  kind 
one." 

Timothy  grev^^  impatient. 

"  I  see  you're  the  sort  that  never  says  a  harsh  word 
of  anybody,"  he  answered.  "  But  I  don't  hold  with 
that.  I  believe  it  makes  for  untruth  in  the  long  run. 
It  ain't  no  disrespect  to  Sir  Percy  to  say  he's  got  a 
small  brain  —  he  can't  help  it.  Only  when  one,  like  I 
am,  thinks  of  all  the  advantages  wasted  on  a  man  like 
that,  we  can't  help  feeling  a  bit  impatient." 

"  I'm  sure  you  must  be  very  clever  to  say  such  things," 
she  answered  innocently. 

"  I  think,  that's  all.  I  was  what  you  might  call  fairly 
good  material  wasted.  I'd  have  made  a  scholar  if  I'd  got 
the  chance.  And  yet  things  fell  out  so  strange  that  I 
did  get  the  chance  —  an  offer  of  a  whole  year  to  get 
scholarship  in  London.  But  there  was  a  condition  to  it 
that  made  the  offer  no  use.  That's  why  I'm  at  Yarner 
now." 

"  Very  interesting,  I'm  sure." 

He  made  as  though  he  would  explain,  but  did  not. 
Instead  he  changed  the  subject  abruptly. 

"  There's  few  more  wonderful  places  than  a  big  wood. 
You  can  learn  a  lot  in  it  if  you  be  the  learning  sort." 

She  brightened  and  nodded  quickly. 

"  I'm  sure  you  can.     Mr.  Redstone  said  that,  too." 

"Ah,  did  he?  I  wonder  what  he  made  of  it?  You 
fetch  out  of  a  wood  what  you  take  in.  My  late  master 
said  that  to  me.  It  mightn't  sound  sense  to  you,  but  'tis 
a  very  clever  saying  for  all  that.  According  to  your 
bent  of  mind,  so  you  see  one  side  of  a  thing.  But 
there's  a  lot  of  people  whose  only  side  be  a  blind  side. 
They  take  no  wits  into  the  wood  and  they  bring 
nothing  out  of  it.  Sir  Percy,  for  instance.  To  hear  him 
talk!" 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  39 

"  But  the  great  men  who  come  to  shoot.  Do  you  ever 
get  a  word  with  them  ?  " 

"  No  great  men  come  to  shoot.  Men  come  to  hunt 
birds  —  as  if  there  wasn't  anything  better  to  hunt.  But 
they're  not  great  men.  Their  talk  be  of  the  latest 
cartridges.  They  don't  bring  anything  into  the  woods 
but  death  for  the  creatures." 

"  You're  terrible  clever,  I  see,"  said  the  girl.  But  she 
meant  it,  and  spoke  without  irony. 

"  This  wood,"  he  continued,  ignoring  the  compliment 
and  pointing  where  Yarner  stretched  beneath  them,  "  is 
a  jungle,  and  man's  mind  is  a  jungle  of  thoughts.  The 
wood's  choked  with  trees,  and  man's  mind  is  choked 
with  thoughts.  And  the  trees  kill  each  other,  and 
thoughts  kill  each  other.  And  every  man's  got  to  work 
his  way  through  the  living  and  dead.  D'you  under- 
stand that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  partly.  I  know  the  trees  kill  each  other ;  I've 
seen  them  doing  it." 

She  spoke  intelligently,  and  Timothy,  somewhat  to  his 
own  surprise,  found  himself  listening  to  a  woman.  His 
attitude  to  the  sex  was  ungenial  and  ungallant,  after  the 
manner  of  his  class ;  but  now  he  listened,  and  heard  shy 
thoughts  and  glimpsed  a  simple  and  sanguine  philosophy 
that  differed  from  his  own  but  none  the  less  argued  ob- 
servation and  education.  Drusilla  was  a  forest  girl :  she 
haunted  the  woods  for  frank  love  of  them,  and  knew 
them  better  than  did  the  man  as  yet.  She  had  also 
brought  intelligence  into  them  and  had  taken  something 
out ;  but  as  at  Dodona,  so  here :  to  different  suppliants 
the  murmur  of  the  wind  in  the  leaves,  or  the  shout  of  it 
among  naked  branches  came  with  different  voices  and 
uttered  different  oracles.  The  girl  was  deaf  to  much 
that  the  man  had  heard ;  he  turned  with  impatience  from 
some  of  the  ideas  she  voiced.  But  not  from  all  did  he 
turn.  Her  wood-lore  interested  him  exceedingly,  for  a 
lonely  woman's  mind  and  observation  had  noted  things 
seldom  interesting  to  women.  Her  facts  impressed  him 
—  only  her  timorous  deductions  made  him  scoff.     Yet 


40  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

there  was  that  in  her  that  struck  his  tongue  to  gentle- 
ness. He  even  showed  a  little  rude  courtesy  before  her. 
There  trembled  a  shadow  of  uneasiness  over  his  spirit  — 
a  shadow  that  none  had  thrown  until  now. 

Their  attitudes  were  defined  in  a  phrase  or  two. 

"  Have  you  noticed  how  every  creature  gets  uncom- 
fortable and  dissatisfied  with  its  place  when  men  come 
among  'em  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  How  should  I  ?  I'm  not  a  man. 
I'm  a  girl,  and  I  go  among  'em  alone.  I  don't  fright 
and  harry  'em.  Perhaps  'tis  because  I  don't  carry  a 
gun.  They'll  come  close  enough  to  me  when  I  sit  quiet, 
or  go  about  slow  and  keep  my  eye  from  catching 
theirs." 

"  Ah !  they  won't  look  us  in  the  face  willingly." 

"  Perhaps  because  we're  ugly  to  their  little  eyes." 

He  laughed  at  that  —  a  short,  sudden  laugh ;  but  his 
mirth  came  and  went  in  a  moment.  He  considered 
awhile,  then  felt  an  instinct  to  tell  this  new  acquaintance 
about  himself. 

"  Only  one  thing  of  note  ever  happened  to  me,"  he 
said.     "  Would  you  like  to  hear  it  ?  " 

"  Pm  sure  I  should,  Mr.  Snow,  if  it  isn't  to  trouble 
you  too  much  to  tell  it." 

There  was  a  little  excitement  in  his  voice  when  he 
spoke  again. 

"  Funny  I  should  offer  to  tell  a  stranger,  and  a  woman 
at  that;  but  you're  not  the  chattering  sort." 

"  No  credit  to  me  —  just  accident  and  loneliness." 

He  debated  with  himself  again  whether  he  should  tell 
her,  and  finally  decided  to  do  so.  His  decision  astonished 
him,  but  he  persisted  in  it.  He  was  slightly  flurried,  why 
he  knew  not. 

"  Don't  repeat  what  I  am  going  to  say  —  to  nobody  at 
all." 

"  Be  sure  I  shan't,  then." 

"  Six  months  ago  I  was  about  my  business,  far  ways 
from  here,  without  a  thought  of  any  change,  when  my 
master  come  to  me  —  a  cunning  man,  and  he  knew  how 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  41 

to  tempt  me.  'Twas  not  hid  from  him  that  I  thirsted 
after  knowledge  and  wanted  to  learn ;  and  he  came  in 
the  woods  —  an  elderly,  grey-whiskered  man,  with  the 
slow,  certain  step  of  a  strong  beast  that  knows  he's  the 
cock  of  the  walk.  A  clever  man :  haughty  and  lazy  most 
times,  but  in  earnest  that  day.  He  offered  me  to  go  to 
London  for  a  year,  that  I  might  learn,  learn,  learn,  and 
take  classes  and  enlarge  my  mind.  But  there  was  a 
price :  I'd  got  to  marry  a  young  woman  with  child.  You 
see,  his  son  had  seduced  a  very  nice  girl,  and  the  idea 
was  that  I  should  father  the  baby,  that  the  woman  should 
go  to  London  and  marry  me,  and  that,  presently,  I  should 
come  back  to  my  work,  after  a  year  away  with  my  wife, 
and  my  son  or  daughter,  as  the  case  might  be.  The  old 
chap  offered  me  money,  and  what  he  knew  would  tempt 
me  more  :  a  chance  to  learn  —  and  he  argued  very  cleverly 
for  it." 

"  Shameful !  " 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  I  didn't  feel  no  anger  —  not 
with  the  old  man.  'Twas  a  fair  sporting  offer  —  from 
his  point  of  view.  He  didn't  know  better.  He  belonged 
to  the  ruling  class,  and  thought  he  was  well  within  his 
rights.  They  are  terrible  savage  and  indecent  in  their 
ideas,  that  sort.     "VVe  be  teaching  'em  gradually." 

"  And  the  girl?  " 

"  A  brainless  fool.  She  was  frantic,  and  would  have 
married  the  devil.  She  was  feared  of  hell  fire,  poor 
soul,  and  thought  all  sorts  of  things  would  happen  if 
she  couldn't  get  a  husband.  There'd  have  been  great 
evil  come  of  it  if  I  had  married  her.  Because  it  would 
have  been  a  bad  deed  in  itself  —  not  to  marry  her  —  but 
to  father  her  child.  That  would  have  been  to  live  a  life- 
long lie,  and  that  must  have  been  bad." 

"  Truest  kindness  to  the  child,  however." 

"  How  can  you  say  that  ?  Besides,  should  a  man  marry 
a  woman  he  don't  love,  for  money?  Isn't  that  the  very 
thing  our  class  always  tlouts  the  upper  people  for  doing? 
To  have  took  that  girl  would  have  been  to  make  her  a 
whore  twice  over." 


42  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"What  became  of  her?" 

"  An  old  flame  married  her,  and  thankful  to  do  it.  For 
love,  not  money.  And  she  loved  him  for  doing  it  — 
though  she  hadn't  loved  him  before;  and  the  child  died, 
so  it  all  went  very  well." 

"  And  you  lost  your  place  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  the  old  man  couldn't  stand  me  about  after  I 
refused  to  pleasure  him.  It  hurt  him  somehow.  He  felt 
things  were  going  wrong  with  his  class,  and  'twas  a  bad 
sign  that  a  servant  could  deny  him  such  a  wish." 

"You  like  Yarner?" 

"  So  far,  though  a  cruel  cold  wood  for  birds,  as  I've 
told  you." 

"  Here's  where  I  live,"  said  Drusilla,  as  she  drew  up 
beside  a  little  house  that  stood  beneath  the  Moor  and 
above  the  woods.  A  road  cut  the  hill  horizontally  here, 
and  the  house  hid  beside  it  in  a  copse  of  beech. 

"  Shall  I  lead  the  donkey  in  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no,  thank  you ;  I'll  do  that.  And  I'm  sure  I 
feel  very  greatly  obliged." 

He  looked  full  in  her  face  for  a  moment  while  handing 
her  the  halter. 

"  You're  welcome,"  he  said.  "  And  don't  you  tell  again 
what  I've  told  you." 

Then  he  left  her  and  descended  into  the  forest.  He 
spoke  that  night  of  Drusilla  Whyddon  and  her  aunt  to 
his  mother. 

"  I  met  the  young  woman  and  did  her  a  good  turn. 
She  tells  me  you  know  them  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  they  came  in  a  bit  back-along  to  offer  friend- 
ship, and  I  like  the  doubtful-eyed,  young  creature  —  a 
gentle,  soft-hearted  thing.  But  her  aunt  —  that  Miss 
Widger  —  she's  different  —  a  spinster  through  no  fault 
of  her  own  —  plain  and  sour  and  sick,  and  full  of  her 
aches  and  pains  and  wrongs  —  a  snarling  thing,  and  very 
ungrateful  to  God." 

"  'Tisn't  often  you  give  anybody  such  a  bad  character," 
he  answered.     "Anyway,  the  young  woman  seems  de- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  43 

cent  enough.     I  talked  to  her  up  over  and  found  her  full 
of  a  sort  of  narrow  sense." 

"  Talked  to  her !     Wonders  never  cease !  "  said  Mrs! 
Snow. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Civilisation  has  stamped  upon  and  flouted  the  ancient 
right  of  woman :  to  choose  her  mate  from  the  best,  the 
father  of  her  children  from  the  strongest.  For  sexual 
selection  to-day  is  determined  by  many  mean  considera- 
tions, as  of  money  or  rank,  which  exist  not  in  the  uncon- 
scious world.  There,  the  merits  of  the  male,  uninfluenced 
by  economic  problems,  decide  his  cause ;  and  in  the 
lowermost  social  grades  of  humanity,  where  all  are  poor 
as  a  matter  of  course,  and  where  distinctions  of  birth  and 
breeding  do  not  obtain,  men  and  women  who  come  to- 
gether in  equality,  approach  a  little  nearer  to  the  primi- 
tive principle  of  natural  choice  and  are  freer  to  base 
their  unions  upon  it  than  those  whom  chance  has  placed 
in  a  higher  social  order,  with  more  complicated  needs 
and  more  sophisticated  ambitions. 

Drusilla  Whyddon  was  twenty-five,  and  as  yet  knew 
not  passion.  One  man  had  loved  her  with  all  the  force 
and  fire  of  a  forceful  and  fiery  nature,  but  him  she  had 
not  loved,  although  his  own  fervour  had  won  for  him  a 
kindly  affection.  And  now  a  very  deep  and  significant 
interest  moved  in  her  for  another  man.  Upon  no  spring- 
tide hour  had  he  come,  when  love  was  in  the  air ;  to  no 
willing  or  wanton  woman's  heart  had  he  come,  where  sex 
is  ever  awake  and  alert  to  seek  and  win  the  male ;  but  out 
of  the  chill  snow,  to  a  soul  as  chill  and  virginal,  had 
Timothy  appeared,  and  his  candour  of  mind  wakened 
wonder,  his  austerity  inspired  a  little  fear  and  much 
respect.  Drusilla,  albeit  sensitive  enough,  felt  no  morbid 
suspicion  that  this  interest  was  unbecoming.  She  did 
not  lack  for  imagination,  and  permitted  herself  to  con- 
sider the  keeper  as  a  friend.  She  contrasted  him  with 
his  predecessor  John  Redstone,  and  measured  the  dif- 

44 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  45 

fereiice;  she  recalled  Timothy's  convictions  and  opinions; 
she  marked  where  his  life  had  led  him  to  beliefs  widely 
different  from  her  own.  There  was  a  power  of  self- 
assertion  about  him  that  appealed  to  her  lack  of  it ;  the 
masterful  in  him  attracted  her  own  weak  will.  She 
speculated  upon  him  and  his  future;  she  considered  his 
appearance,  and  as  yet,  unblinded  by  love,  regretted  that 
he  stood  not  a  little  taller,  and  that  his  voice  did  not  rise 
and  fall  on  a  more  mellow  note.  It  was  of  a  harsh 
quality  —  so  Drusilla  reflected  —  perhaps  proper  to  the 
hard  things  that  it  said.  She  reposed  finally  on  a  con- 
tented consideration  of  his  cleverness  and  power.  She 
asked  her  aunt  of  him,  and  what  she  heard  made  her 
unhappy.  Then  she  roused  herself  and  took  herself  to 
task  for  wasting  thought  upon  the  man.  Miss  Widger 
was  an  intelligencer  more  active  than  accurate,  but  she 
had  all  the  gossip  of  Ilsington  at  her  fingers'  ends. 

"  No  call  for  you  to  start  dreaming  about  that  chap," 
she  said.  "  He's  far  above  us,  and  has  the  chance  of 
rising  to  riches ;  so,  being  a  sane  sort  of  young  man,  he'll 
take  it.  Nephew  to  Lot  Snow  —  him  that  devours 
widows'  houses  down  to  the  village.  No  doubt  he'll  do 
the  same  when  his  chance  comes." 

The  speaker  was  old  and  withered  and  sick.  She 
suffered  from  a  rodent  ulcer  on  her  face,  and  she  dis- 
played the  injury  that  all  might  see  and  be  shocked. 
Physical  pain  had  gnawed  into  more  than  her  flesh,  for 
her  outlook  on  life  was  based  on  personal  experience, 
and  the  joy  of  life  had  ever  been  a  thing  hidden  from 
her. 

"  God  knows  I  wish  you  could  happen  on  a  chap  to 
care  about ;  for  I  shall  be  dead  afore  very  long  —  that's 
a  blessed  certainty  —  and  what'll  happen  to  a  lone,  homely 
thing  like  you  when  I'm  took  is  the  first  of  my  many 
troubles." 

"  I  can  work,  Aunt  Jenny." 

"  Work,  yes  —  that's  what  our  family  was  bom  to. 
But  to  work  and  to  get  work  ban't  the  same  thing.  I've 
done  oceans  of  needful  chores  in  my  weary  years,  yet 


46  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

here  am  I  at  the  end  of  'em  no  better  off.  I'd  wish  you 
more  luck  than  I've  had." 

"  I  don't  want  anybody  but  you ;  and  you  oughtn't  to 
take  on  like  this,  for  doctor  said  you  was  a  marvel  and 
good  for  a  long  time  yet." 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  good  for  a  long  time.  What's 
a  long  time  to  me?  Pain  and  more  pain,  and  more  and 
more  —  that's  all  this  world  can  promise  me." 

"  'Twill  be  made  up  to  you  in  the  next,  dear  Aunt 
Jenny." 

"  I  should  hope  so;  /  should  just  hope  so!"  answered 
the  elder.  "  Mercy  I've  never  had,  and  'twill  be  too  late 
for  that  when  I'm  dead;  but  justice  I've  a  right  to  de- 
mand —  'tis  my  lawful  right,  and  small  thanks  due  v/hen 
I  get  it!" 

Miss  Widger  was  rolling  dough  as  she  spoke,  and  she 
slapped  the  stuff  bitterly,  almost  vindictively,  to  point 
her  attitude  to  the  future. 

Now  Drusilla  Whyddon  strove  to  think  less  upon 
Timothy  Snow,  for  this  information  seemed  to  block  all 
personal  considerations  or  possibilities.  None  the  less, 
she  remembered  that  he  had  spoken  of  their  meeting 
again;  and  when  they  did  so,  a  few  days  later,  she  was 
glad.  But  she  found  herself  nervous  in  his  company. 
She  recollected  how  greatly  he  had  filled  her  mind  of 
late,  and  felt  an  unreasoning  dread  that  the  fact  would 
somehow  escape  to  him  from  her.  His  direct  and  open 
manner  set  her  at  ease,  however,  and  she  was  moved 
to  find  that  what  had  happened  to  her  was  his  own  ex- 
perience also.  But  he,  apparently,  felt  no  instinct  to 
conceal  it.  He  told  her  frankly  that  he  had  thought  of 
her  more  than  once  since  their  walk  in  the  snow. 

They  met  on  the  way  to  worship,  and  Timothy's  mother 
fell  in  step  with  Miss  Widger,  while  the  young  man  and 
woman  walked  in  front.  Unconsciously  they  quickened 
their  pace  as  the  subject  of  their  speech  interested  them, 
and  so  it  happened  that  they  reached  the  church  some 
while  before  their  elders. 

"  Your  donkey  was  none  the  worse,  I  hope  ?  "  he  began. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  47 

"  I'd  thought  to  see  you  before  to-day,  but  didn't  get  so 
far  as  your  home." 

"  He's  all  right.  I  never  thanked  you  for  your  trou- 
ble." 

"  I  was  a  good  bit  interested  in  what  we  talked  about. 
I  haven't  met  a  woman  before  that  cared  a  button  for 
my  work." 

"  The  woods  were  my  playground  always.  I  never  had 
no  children  to  play  with,  and  so  didn't  miss  'em.  I  feel 
at  home  among  the  trees." 

"  There's  interesting  things  to  be  marked  even  in 
winter." 

"  I  know.  I  look  at  your  gamekeeper's  gallows  some- 
times when  I  pass  that  way.  But  I'm  always  sorry  to 
see  new  creatures  nailed  there." 

He  nodded. 

"  And  I'm  sorry  to  put  'em  there.  And,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  don't  like  shooting  hawk  and  stoat  —  just  for 
being  themselves.  But  they  are  poachers,  and  we  can't 
give  them  six  months  in  klink,  like  t'other  sort,  so  we've 
got  to  shoot  'em.  That's  the  way  of  the  world.  If  you 
ban't  sociable  and  willing  to  fall  in  with  the  ideas  of  the 
strongest,  they  stamp  on  you.  If  you've  got  a  bending 
nature,  you  fit  in;  but  if  your  character  be  made  of 
hawk  and  stoat,  you  stand  alone." 

"  How  about  you,  then  ?    You  told  me  — " 

"  That's  different.  I'm  an  understanding  creature  and 
know  that  I  must  give  in  a  bit.  You  have  got  to  give 
if  you  want  to  take,  and  if  you  go  for  a  gamekeeper, 
you  must  do  a  keeper's  work,  though  in  your  heart  you 
may  be  sorry  to  do  it.  Owls  I  won't  shoot,  and  I've  told 
the  master  so.  'Tis  only  ignorant  fools,  like  the  last  man, 
who  shot  them.     They  do  good,  not  harm." 

Drusilla  coloured,  for  she  had  a  loyal  spirit. 

"  Mr.  Redstone  wasn't  a  fool,  by  any  means.  A  fine, 
big-hearted  chap." 

"  He  shot  owls,  however,  for  there's  the  rames  ^  of 
three  owls  —  two  brown  and  a  white  —  nailed  up  yet." 

1  Rames :  skeletons. 


48  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  He  thought  they  did  harm,  I  sni)i)Ose.  Why  for 
shouldn't  lie  be  right  about  'em  and  you  wrong?  " 

A  straight  (juestion  of  this  sort  always  interested 
Timothy,  and  now  he  set  out  to  explain  the  natural 
history  of  the  matter  at  great  length.  He  convinced 
Drusilla,  and  made  her  admit  that  he  was  right.  They 
spoke  of  the  woods,  and  he  asked  her  if  she  had  ob- 
served certain  phenomena ;  while  she  told  him  of  things 
that  as  yet  he  had  not  noticed. 

They  became  excited ;  their  eyes  sparkled,  and  she  won 
one  of  his  rare  laughs  from  him.  He  looked  at  her 
often,  and  she  looked  at  him,  and  remarked  in  secret 
on  his  Sunday  clothes.  They  seemed  better  than  his 
station,  and  he  wore  them  with  ease,  not  laboriously. 

Something  he  said  gave  her  pause. 
But  you  go  to  church  ?  "  she  asked. 
Zes  —  to  please  my  mother  —  and  to  please  myself, 
for  that  matter.  I  like  sermons.  They  may  be  dull,  but 
they  are  the  words  and  thoughts  of  men  who  have  been 
better  educated  and  had  more  chances  than  I  have.  It 
amuses  me  to  see  how  feebly  some  of  them  think.  But 
some  of  them  are  wise.  The  clergyman  at  Ilsington  is 
very  wise." 

Their  elders  joined  them  presently  at  the  church  door, 
and  all  through  the  service  Drusilla  wondered  whether 
she  would  see  Timothy  again  afterwards  and  perhaps 
walk  homeward  with  him.  But  this  did  not  happen,  be- 
cause the  Snows  were  dining  with  their  relatives  at  Ilsing- 
ton. A  family  party  had  been  arranged  by  Lot  —  indeed 
more  than  a  family  party,  for  Willes  Leaman  and  his 
daughter  were  present,  and  Timothy  sat  beside  Audrey 
at  the  table. 

The  girl  expected  some  amusement  when  he  recognised 
her;  she  hoped  that  he  might  reveal  a  little  embarrass- 
ment, but  he  did  not.  He  remembered  her  at  once,  yet 
made  no  allusion  whatever  to  their  first  meeting. 

She,  however,  did  so,  and  talked  more  than  Timothy 
during    the    progress    of    the    meal.     She    chaffed    and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  49 

laughed,  and  showed  a  sense  of  humour  which  was 
wasted  upon  him. 

"  Don't  know  how  'tis,  Mr.  Snow,  but  ever  since  you 
warned  me  out  of  Yarner  so  sharp,  I've  felt  drawn  to  it. 
I  believe  I  go  there  now  just  because  you  told  me  not  to. 
You'd  best  to  bid  me  come  if  you  want  me  away." 

"  I  don't  want  you  away.  'Tis  what's  right  —  that's 
all.  You  set  a  bad  example,  and  some  day  I  shall  be 
hauled  over  the  coals  for  it." 

"  Oh  no,  you  won't.  Squire's  grandson  is  a  very  good 
friend  of  mine ;  he'd  stand  up  for  me.  He  met  me  a 
week  ago  and  asked  me  to  stop  and  watch  him  drawing 
a  picture.  Mister  Eustace  I  mean.  He  likes  me.  He 
writes  poetry,  too." 

"  A  spoilt  young  man  —  like  all  only  children.  His 
grandfather  makes  a  fool  of  him." 

"  Don't  you  talk  about  only  children  !    What  was  you  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  I  had  to  work  for  my  living,  and  my  mother's  not 
the  sort  to  spoil  boy  or  girl." 

Audrey  regarded  him  with  pleasure,  and  noticed  his 
clothes  as  Drusilla  had  done.  His  hands  were  very  clean 
and  not  rough  with  work.  He  piqued  her,  and  she 
saw  a  marked  difference  between  him  and  most  of  her 
friends.  Her  jokes  quite  failed  upon  him,  and  where 
Mr.  Moyle  and  others  would  have  roared  with  laughter, 
Timothy  only  smiled  faintly  or  showed  no  amusement 
at  all.  She  was  wayward,  changed  her  mind  about  the 
dishes,  and  made  him  wait  upon  her.  Presently  she 
looked  into  his  face  and  asked  him  the  colour  of  her  eyes. 

*'  There's  more  than  one  opinion  —  more  than  two,  for 
that  matter.  You're  pretty  clever,  I  should  think :  so 
what  colour  are  they?" 

He  looked,  and  the  elders  watched  the  ordeal.  Her 
lovely  face  was  brought  near  to  his,  and  her  eyes  chal- 
lenged him  with  all  their  power.  But  for  the  first  time  in 
Audrey's  experience  no  emotion  touched  a  man  as  he 
gazed  into  them.     She  drooped  them,  lifted  them,  made  a 


50  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

great  pretence  of  keeping  steady  and  serious,  twinkled, 
flashed,  pursed  her  mouth  and  presently  laughed  in 
very  joyous  fashion.  Her  father  and  Lot  Snow  regarded 
her  with  admiration ;  the  serving-girl  stood  still  and 
grinned;  Lot's  old  sister  and  Timothy's  mother  both 
viewed  the  scene  with  some  discomfort.  Only  the  young 
man  appeared  to  be  entirely  unmoved. 

"  They  change,"  he  said  cooly.  "...  There's  a  lot 
of  different  colours  in  'em.  Slate-colour  with  brown 
dots,  I  should  call  'em." 

"  That's  not  very  flattering,  anyway." 

"  Did  you  want  me  to  flatter  ?  What's  the  sense  of 
that  ?  They're  very  pretty  eyes,  and  you're  a  very  pretty 
girl.     Of  course  everybody  knows  that." 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing !  "  she  said. 

A  lack  of  subtlety  and  finesse  marked  the  entertain- 
ment, but  that  gave  none  pause.  Audrey  and  Timothy 
both  knew  what  was  hoped  and  expected  from  them, 
and  she  attached  no  importance  to  this  preliminary  skir- 
mish under  the  eyes  of  other  people.  "  Wait  till  I  get 
him  alone,"  she  thought.  She  liked  him  as  a  man,  for 
he  was  strong  and  clean  and  healthy,  but  she  feared  that 
he  might  be  a  hard  and  unsympathetic  husband.  Indeed, 
the  idea  of  a  husband  was  not  wholly  pleasant  to  her. 
She  preferred  to  rove,  and  there  was  in  her  a  natural 
bent  to  intrigue  and  adventure  that  the  very  word  "  hus- 
band "  struck  upon  antipathetically.  But  since  it  seemed 
that  she  must  marry,  she  felt  that  here  was  a  man  essen- 
tially marriageable.  To  win  him,  even  if  she  did  not 
wed  him,  was  now  her  desire.  She  determined  upon 
conquest,  and  doubted  not  that  she  would  soon  learn 
enough  about  him  to  make  him  love  her. 

A  little  light  was  let  into  her  mind  presently,  and  she 
began  to  doubt  whether  the  contemplated  game  would  be 
worth  the  candle.  Timothy  showed  himself  a  hard  man 
where  women  were  concerned  —  harder  even  than  his 
bachelor  uncle. 

Lot  Snow  reproved  some  sentiment  he  uttered  dis- 
respectful to  the  sex. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  51 

"  You  mustn't  talk  like  that,  my  young  shav'er,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  sure  your  mother  ought  to  have  taught  you 
better.     Women  ain't  domestic  animals." 

"  Aren't  they  —  how  many  are  not  ?  How  many  ask 
for  more  than  food  and  clothes  for  themselves  and  their 
children  ?     And  how  many  are  worth  more  ?  " 

"  You  say  that !  The  Lord  pity  your  wife !  "  exclaimed 
Audrey.  "  You're  wrong  —  every  way.  That  sort  of 
thing's  a  bit  old-fashioned,  Mr.  Snow  —  and  you'll  live 
to  find  it  out  if  you  ever  have  any  truck  with  a  girl. 
Women  are  no  more  domestic  animals  nowadays  than  cats 
are.  They  may  pretend  it  —  to  gull  the  likes  of  you  — 
but  'tis  only  pretence.  They  think  for  themselves  and 
run  their  own  shows.  And  if  their  shows  don't  please 
their  fathers  and  mothers  —  then  they  run  'em  out  of 
sight.     You're  the  sort — " 

She  stopped.     Her  elders  were  all  listening. 

"  Go  on  —  let  me  have  it,"  said  Timothy. 

But  she  laughed,  and  said  no  more.  She  was  thinking 
that,  after  all,  a  man  of  Timothy's  cast-iron  opinions 
and  prejudices  might  not  be  very  difficult  to  hoodwink. 
But  to  waken  in  him  love  for  a  woman  did  promise  to 
be  difficult. 

Dinner  was  interrupted  before  its  completion,  and  a 
man  galloped  to  the  entrance,  alighted  from  a  smoking 
horse  and  hammered  loudly  at  the  door. 

"  'Tis  Johnny  Redstone,"  said  Lot.  "  None  but  he 
would  do  a  thing  like  this.  The  rascal  —  he's  smarting 
early  —  yowling  afore  he's  hit,  you  might  say." 

"  Shall  I  go  to  the  door?  "  asked  Sibella  Snow  of  her 
brother ;  but  he  forbade  her. 

"  No  —  not  you  nor  yet  Milly  —  let  him  cool  a  bit ; 
then  I'll  send  him  going  myself.  The  Lord's  Day  ban't 
the  time  to  talk  of  my  mortgage,  and  he  ought  to  know 
that." 

From  his  place  Timothy  Snow  was  able  to  look  out  of 
the  window  and  mark  the  man  who  waited  there. 

"  'Tis  he  who  did  your  work  at  Yarner  before  you," 
explained  Timothy's  aunt. 


52  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  And  I  had  some  ado  to  shift  him,"  added  Lot.  ''  Sir 
Percy  thought  a  deal  of  him  —  there  was  that  about  the 
man  that  took  his  fancy  —  birds  of  a  feather,  no  doubt; 
but  John  Redstone  was  careless,  and  I  catched  his  master 
in  a  cross-grained  mood  and  sang  your  praises.  Then  he 
sacked  Redstone  while  still  in  a  rage,  and  after,  when  he 
changed  his  mind  again  and  wanted  Redstone  to  stop,  the 
man  wouldn't.  He  went  off  to  his  farm  instead,  and 
now  his  farm  has  got  to  be  my  farm.  No  fault  of  his, 
but  his  father  before  him.  The  sins  of  the  fathers  are 
visited  on  the  children.  Religion  and  nature  are  at  one 
there.  His  father  treated  me  shameful,  and  snapped  his 
fingers  at  me  on  his  death-bed.  I  steadied  him  even 
there,  however.  He  was  sneering  and  deriding  me,  and 
I  said :  '  Listen,  George  Redstone,  afore  your  ears  are 
closed  for  ever.  So  sure  as  the  death  that  you're  going 
to,  my  man,  you'll  pay  for  your  fun.  You  think  you've 
done  me,  but  remember  the  son  you  leave  behind  you  — 
the  apple  of  your  eye,  as  well  I  know.  You've  done  me, 
as  you  think,  but  there's  him  to  reckon  with,  and  the 
pound  of  flesh  I  can't  get  out  of  you,  I'll  have  oflf  him. 
And  you  keep  that  in  your  mind  when  you  draw  your 
last  breath ! '  So  I  told  the  man,  and  he  didn't  laugh 
no  more  after  that.  He'd  forgot  his  son,  with  his  wits 
wandering  just  near  the  end.  But  I  drove  it  into  his 
fading  senses,  and  he  died  pretty  sick  I'm  told.  All  right 
and  justice." 

The  visitor  knocked  again.  Then  Lot  rose  heavily, 
wiped  his  mouth,  and  lumbered  to  the  door. 

Timothy  had  marked  a  tall,  sturdy  man,  with  chestnut 
hair  and  a  freckled  face.  His  nose  was  aquiline,  his  eyes 
were  an  amber  red.  Hot  temper  stood  declared,  but  his 
mouth  under  a  dark  auburn  moustache  showed  kindly 
lines.  It  was,  however,  as  strongly  moulded  as  the  chin 
beneath  it.  Waywardness  and  faulty  judgment  marked 
his  brow.  He  was  a  man  of  whom  at  first  glance  a  critic 
had  guessed  that  he  might  be  his  own  enemy. 

"  D'you  know  the  day,  John  Redstone  ?  "  asked  Lot 
Snow. 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  53 

"  Yes,  I  do.  You  oughtn't  to  write  such  a  letter  as  I 
got  yesterday  if  you  don't  want  a  quick  answer.  How 
could  I  wait  under  that  till  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  You'll  soon  larn  how.  Patience  ban't  one  of  your 
vartues.  Your  father  weren't  strong  on  it,  neither.  But 
'tis  a  thing  you'll  have  to  come  to  afore  you're  much  older. 
I'll  see  you  next  Thursday  at  four  of  the  clock.  I  shall 
be  riding  to  Cator  Court  that  day,  and  if  you  await  me 
at  Longworthy  I'll  hear  you.  If  you  want  to  cuss  any- 
body, cuss  your  dead  father.  'Twill  comfort  you  and 
won't  hurt  him." 

"  Cuss  him  ?  Not  I.  I  wasn't  worthy  to  black  his 
boots.  I  haven't  come  to  cuss  anybody.  I'm  here  to 
sing  small.  My  father's  father  lives  with  me,  and  he's 
told  me  how  it  stands.     Can't  you  give  me  five  minutes  ?  " 

The  man  was  evidently  making  mighty  efforts  to  con- 
trol himself.     He  smiled,  but  the  other  shook  his  head. 

"  Won't  do,  John." 

"  I've  had  a  good  bit  against  me  of  late.  Lost  my  job, 
and  lost  —  well,  more  than  you  know,  or  anybody  knows. 
If  I'm  to  lose  my  little  farm  also  —  well,  it's  a  poor  look- 
out.    You  know  'tis  only  a  question  of  time." 

"  Not  a  word  to-day.  I  can't  give  you  any  sort  of 
hope,  so  don't  think  it.  The  fathers  have  eaten  sour 
grapes,  and  the  children's  teeth  are  set  on  edge." 

The  other  still  fought  with  himself.  His  big,  freckled 
hand  gripped  hard  over  his  riding  stock.  He  was  silent, 
and  his  smile  perished ;  he  flogged  his  gaitered  leg.  At 
length  he  spoke  as  Lot  prepared  to  go  in  again. 

"  Very  well,  Mr.  Snow  —  at  Longworthy  o'  Thursday 
at  four  o'clock.     Good-morning." 

"  Good-day  to  you." 

The  elder  returned  to  his  dinner ;  the  other  mounted  *&. 
horse  that  chanced  to  be  much  the  colour  of  his  own 
hair  and  rode  away. 

"  On  his  marrow-bones  a'ready,"  said  Lot,  as  he  re- 
turned to  the  family  party. 

"  A  fine  figure  of  a  man,  seemingly,"  remarked  Timo- 
thy. 


54  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  He'll  cut  a  very  foolish  figure  afore  long,  I'm  think- 
ing," said  Mr.  Leaman,  looking  enquiringly  at  Lot. 

"  A  short-sighted  creature.  He  might  have  saved  the 
situation  if  he'd  liked  when  his  father  died.  But  no :  he 
must  go  his  own  way.  And  now  he's  run  his  head  up 
against  the  law  —  as  I  expected  he  would." 

Audrey  Leaman  knew  all  about  Redstone  in  another 
connection. 

"  No  harm  naming  it,  I  suppose,"  she  said.  "  He  was 
terrible  sweet  on  Drusilla  —  Drusilla  Whyddon  —  her 
whose  father  did  Sir  Percy  a  service  and  died.  She  lives 
along  with  that  old  horror,  Jenny  Widger,  at  the  top  of 
the  woods ;  and  Mr.  Redstone  was  in  love  with  her  —  head 
over  ears  —  a  tremendous  lover,  by  all  accounts ;  but  she 
hadn't  any  use  for  him.  She  was  better  educated  a  lot, 
though  not  much  to  look  at.     A  fine  chap,  too." 

Timothy  felt  interested,  yet  wondered  at  his  own  in- 
terest. That  Audrey  should  slight  Drusilla's  appearance 
provoked  him,  and  she  saw  it. 

"  Did  you  know  Redstone,  my  dear? "  asked  Lot,  and 
Audrey's  father  laughed. 

"  Know  him !  You  show  me  any  male  as  she  don't 
know  this  side  of  Plymouth.  She'd  make  friends  with 
a  scarecrow  if  it  wore  trousers." 

"  Men  are  more  interesting  than  women,"  declared 
Audrey. 

"  And  so  they  are,"  agreed  Lot  Snow.  "  So  they  are 
all  the  way,  and  I  like  your  pluck  for  not  being  ashamed 
to  say  so.  Every  woman  knows  it,  but  how  many  would 
slap  it  out  same  as  that  ?  Now  you  and  Master  Timothy 
Silent  here  can  go  in  the  churchyard  and  look  at  the 
graves,  or,  if  that  isn't  fun  enough,  you  may  take  a  walk 
and  come  home  for  tea." 

"  We  didn't  think  to  stop  to  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Snow 
doubtfully. 

"  You  will,  however,"  declared  her  brother-in-law. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Upon  the  northern  ridge  of  Yarner,  in  the  midst  of  the 
main  wood,  there  spread  a  clearing,  waist-deep  in  ling. 
Oaks  were  scattered  through  it,  and  the  sere  heather  broke 
at  one  point  away,  where  a  small  patch  of  grass  extended. 
Here  stood  a  crab-tree  with  its  worthless  harvest  of  red 
and  gold  still  scattered  about  its  grey  feet.  The  acrid, 
little  apples  shone  brightly  upon  the  ground,  but  no  bird 
or  beast  had  touched  them. 

Now,  however,  a  woman,  sitting  under  the  tree,  amused 
herself  with  the  bright  globes,  played  at  catch-ball  with 
them,  and  flung  them  at  a  man  who  slouched  at  full 
length  beside  her. 

"  Taste  one  again,  Fred,"  she  said.  "  I  loved  to  see 
the  face  you  made  when  you  bit  one  just  now." 

Mr.  Moyle  refused. 

"  You're  too  fond  of  seeing  me  make  faces.  You're  a 
cruel  thing.  You  don't  care  who  you  hurt,  or  what  you 
hurt,  so  long  as  you  get  your  fun  out  of  it." 

"  Fun !  Little  enough  fun  going  for  me.  Life's  as 
dull  as  the  weather,  very  near." 

"  Not  for  you.  You  do  what  you  please  and  go  your 
own  sporting  way,  and  have  the  men  at  your  feet  for 
the  moving  of  a  finger." 

He  spoke  with  discontent,  and  lifted  his  good-looking 
face  to  her.     Hungry  love  reigned  on  it. 

"  What  about  Timothy  Snow  ?  " 

"  He'll  come  the  minute  you  set  about  him.  And  he's 
got  his  uncle  to  deal  with,  anyway.  By  God,  it  makes 
me  rage  to  think  that  chap —  Weak  in  his  head  is  the 
only  word  for  him !  " 

The  wind  blew  cold  and  dry  above  them.  It  was  a 
day  in  February  when  scarcely  any  life  moved  in  the 

55 


56  THE  FOREST  Ox\  THE  HILL 

forest  —  a  despondent  day  whose  purpose  did  not  appear ; 
an  uneventful  day  in  the  procession  of  days,  taking  its 
place  and  passing  without  leaving  one  sign. 

"  Let's  get  up  and  walk  a  bit,  then  we'll  come  back 
here.  My  toes  are  cold  and  I've  got  the  blues,"  said 
Miss  Leaman.  "  As  to  Timothy  —  though  I  haven't  got 
be3^ond  calling  him  '  Mr.  Snow  '  to  his  face  —  he's  inter- 
esting, of  course  —  not  just  because  he's  who  he  is  and 
the  old  people  want  us  to  be  married  —  but  for  himself. 
He's  clever  and  proud,  and  thinks  women  be  made  from 
poorer  mud  than  men.'' 

"  Gives  himself  airs  enough,  no  doubt.  And  you  silly 
girls  take  him  at  his  own  value." 

"  Not  us.  He's  a  man  that  stands  well  with  men.  The 
men  that  men  like  always  interest  me  most." 

"  And  you  sink  to  dance  about  after  him  —  you,  the 
loveliest  woman  that  ever  come  out  of  Ilsington." 

"  No,  I  don't.  I'm  learning  him,  that's  all.  Some  men 
are  better  for  being  snubbed,  and  some  men  won't  stand 
it.  And  some  men  like  us  to  be  humble  and  creep  to 
'em,  and  some  men  like  us  to  carry  our  noses  high,  so 
that  they  have  to  do  the  creeping  themselves.  He's  the 
first  sort.  He's  taking  stock  of  me,  same  as  I  am  of  him. 
There's  a  good  bit  hangs  to  it ;  but  he  isn't  going  to  be 
hurried,  any  more  than  I  am.  He'll  have  to  let  me  get  to 
know  him  before  I  can  decide." 

"  I  believe  he's  a  thick-headed,  everyday  sort  of  fool 
under  all  that  silence.  There's  a  lot  only  escape  being 
known  for  fools  because  they  keep  their  mouths  shut. 
'Tis  only  through  a  man's  speech  you  can  see  into  his 
head." 

"  He's  clever  enough,"  she  declared,  "  and  he  knows 
it.  He's  a  fine  chap,  and  it's  no  good  pretending  he 
isn't,  Fred.  I  don't  say  I'll  marry  him,  but  I'll  make 
him  want  to  marry  me  if  I  can." 

They  rose  and  walked  together.  He  grumbled  and 
growled  because  Audrey's  support  of  Timothy  seemed 
based  on  such  slender  ground.  The  policeman  began 
to  fear  that  she  would  never  marry  him,  but  he  resented 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  57 

the  thought  of  her  marrying  another.  His  emotions  with 
respect  to  Audrey  Leaman  ascended  far  higher  than  any 
he  had  before  experienced,  and  now  he  looked  ahead 
and  hoped  that  she  would  not  marry  at  all.  He  thought 
of  her  as  a  free  lance,  who  might  some  day  repay  his 
worship  and  sufifer  him  to  be  one  with  others  on  a 
string.  It  was  not  a  noble  ideal,  but  had  slowly  come 
to  replace  others  more  elevated  and  more  hopeless. 

They  met  an  elderly  man  in  the  woods  and  spoke  with 
him.  He  was  clad  in  corduroy,  and  made  a  harmony 
with  the  silver  of  some  old  birches  that  fell  under  his 
axe.  Stark,  white  chips  of  wood  were  scattered  every- 
where, livid  under  the  grey  about  him,  and  his  axe  flashed 
wanly  and  echoed  with  hollow  thuds  through  the  dead- 
ness  and  stagnant  stillness  of  the  hour.  Seth  Campion 
gazed  out  of  round,  owlish  eyes  set  close  together  above 
a  heavy  nose.  His  hair  and  moustache  were  grey ;  his 
face  and  his  back  were  round.  He  wore  a  hat  like  a 
great  withered  leaf,  and  the  sole  spark  of  colour  about 
him  appeared  in  a  dull  crimson  scarf  tied  round  his 
throat. 

"  'Tis  Campion,  my  father's  man,"  said  Audrey. 
"  He's  let  him  out  to  Yarner  for  this  clearing  work. 
Seth's  a  good,  harmless  sort  —  with  a  mind  like  a 
sheep's."  Then  she  turned  to  the  labourer  and  spoke 
loud.     "  How  d'you  like  it  up  here,  Seth  ?  " 

The  man  was  very  deaf,  and  hollowed  his  hand  over 
his  ear.  He  gathered  her  meaning  some  time  after  she 
had  spoken. 

"  They  be  very  pleased  with  me,  so  Snow,  the  keeper, 
says." 

"  So  they  ought  to  be,"  said  Audrey.  It  was  second 
nature  to  her  to  say  pleasant  things  to  any  man  —  old 
or  young. 

"  Ess  —  very  pleased.  But  what  be  you  and  policeman 
Moyle  doing  in  the  woods?  I  suppose  keeper  won't 
quarrel  with  'e?"     He  looked  doubtfully  upon  them. 

"  Yes,  he  would  —  double  (juick.  Of  course  Mr.  King- 
don,  the  head-keeper,  would  look  t'other  way ;  but  Timo- 


58  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

thy  Snow  —  he'd  have  us  up  for  trespassing,  if  I  know 
him." 

"  He's  about ;  I  warn  'e !  " 

As  if  to  prove  this,  there  came  the  sound  of  gun-fire 
not  half  a  mile  distant. 

"  That's  him,"  said  Mr.  Moyle.  "  Well,  I  don't  want 
to  meet  him,  because  very  likely  he  would  have  a  row 
with  me." 

"  You're  my  friend,  ban't  you  ?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Yes  —  but  that  wouldn't  make  me  his  friend." 

Campion  heard  nothing.  He  stood  with  his  axe  as  a 
stick,  and  frowned  and  strained  his  head  on  one  side 
because  he  could  not  follow  them. 

Audrey  turned  to  him. 

"  Snow's  a  good  sort  —  eh  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  know,  missy."  The  labourer 
grinned,  for  the  proposed  romance  was  not  hidden  from 
him, 

"  Fred,  here,  says  he's  conceited  and  selfish  and  hard." 

"  Since  you  ax  me,  I  reckon  policeman's  right.  Mind 
you,  I  shouldn't  have  said  nothing  if  you  hadn't  named 
it,  because  I  wouldn't  offer  my  opinions  to  anybody.  But 
since  you  ax  me,  I  say  he's  a  vain  man  and  terrible  hard 
for  a  young  man.  Strong  in  his  own  conceit,  without 
a  doubt.     A  hard  nut,  in  fact." 

"  Miss  Leaman  thinks  she'll  crack  him  presently  — 
when  she  wants  to,"  said  Moyle. 

"  Not  her,"  answered  the  woodman.  "  The  girl  ain't 
built  to  come  around  that  man  —  unless  'tis  Drusilla 
Whyddon  —  that  orphan  up  over  —  you  know." 

"  Her !  "  cried  Audrey  in  frank  surprise. 

"  I  say  nothing ;  but  I've  my  eyes,  though  my  ears  be 
dull.     I've  marked  them  walking  together  more'n  once." 

Audrey  showed  keen  interest. 

"  What  the  devil  do  the  men  see  in  Drusilla !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  Johnny  Redstone  was  mad  for  her,  but  she 
didn't  want  him ;  now  Snow's  found  her,  seemingly." 

"  Don't  that  show  you  what  he  is  at  bottom  ?  "  asked 
the  policeman  eagerly.     "  He's  only  a  dull  dog,  else  he'd 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  59 

have  been  at  you,  morning,  noon,  and  night,  from  the 
time  he  came.  'Tis  Hke  offering  cheese-cakes  to  a  pig, 
setting  you  before  that  man ;  and  the  sooner  your  father 
knows  it,  the  better  for  all  your  dignity." 

Audrey  was  now  all  eagerness  to  meet  Snow  before 
they  left  the  wood.  A  meeting  might  produce  a  scene, 
and  she  felt  in  the  mood  for  a  scene.  She  hungered 
and  thirsted  to  show  him  her  cleverness,  and  the  sharp- 
ness of  her  tongue,  but  she  hid  this  desire  from  Mr. 
Moyle.  They  left  Campion  and  walked  on  together. 
Dusk  was  coming  down,  and  Frederick  desired  to  be 
gone ;  but  Audrey  delayed.  She  wandered  to  a  woodland 
path  that  ran,  like  a  backbone,  down  the  ridge  to  the 
valley  beneath,  and  sat  presently  where  the  birches  had 
been  felled  and  piled.  A  stream  wound  here,  and  its 
banks  were  yellow  with  the  first  blossoms  of  golden 
saxifrages. 

She  guessed  that  Timothy  might  presently  come  this 
way;  therefore  she  sat  on  the  wood  by  the  path,  bade 
Moyle  stop  beside  her,  and  was  gracious  to  him  and 
made  him  happy.  She  played  with  his  moustache  and 
curled  the  points  of  it,  and  let  him  put  his  face  close 
to  hers.  He  implored  for  a  kiss,  and  reminded  her  that 
she  owed  him  one.  She  denied  it,  but  let  him  kiss  her 
little  finger.  He  lingered  over  it  and  licked  it ;  where- 
upon she  drew  it  away  from  him,  and  called  him  a  pig, 
and  dried  it  on  his  jacket. 

It  was  then  that  a  dog  —  a  black  spaniel  —  came  nosing 
down  the  path,  found  them  and  began  to  bark  violently. 
Audrey  knew  it  for  Snow's  dog,  and  told  the  policeman 
that  the  keeper  was  coming. 

"  Hide,  then  !  "  he  said.  "  Let's  get  under  the  timber ! 
There'll  be  the  deuce  to  pay  if  he  catches  me  here." 

"  No,  there  won't  —  not  if  I  say  you're  my  friend." 

"  What's  the  sense  of  that  ?  He  don't  allow  you  here 
yourself  —  you  said  so." 

"  You  see  me  face  him  out !  "  said  Audrey. 

She  settled  herself  comfortably  upon  the  felled  silver 
birches,  like  a  queen  on  her  throne,  called  the  barking 


6o  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

dog  by  its  name,  and  waited.  Moyle  again  begged  her 
to  hide  or  run  away. 

"  If  you  won't  go,  then  let  me.  Let  me  get  across  the 
water  and  up  the  hill.     I'll  wait  there  for  you,"  he  said. 

But  she  refused,  and  indeed  it  was  too  late,  for  Timothy 
Snow  followed  not  far  behind  his  dog.  He  saw  the 
standing  and  the  sitting  figure  through  the  fading  light, 
and  approached. 

"  These  woods  are  private  and  you're  trespassing,"  be- 
gan Timothy.  Then  he  recognised  both  sinners  and 
stopped.     "  What  does  this  mean  ?  "  he  asked  the  man. 

"  It  means  that  tw^o  people  are  taking  a  walk,  and  you 
mustn't  put  on  such  airs,"  said  Mr.  Moyle.  He  was 
nervous  of  the  keeper,  and  knew  himself  much  in  the 
wrong ;  but  he  desired  to  shine  before  Audrey,  and  now 
she  supported  him. 

"  'Tis  nonsense  betweeii  friends,  Mr.  Snow,"  she  said 
impatiently  ;  "  and  I  suppose  we're  friends  —  you  and  me, 

—  at  any  rate.  Fred  and  I  aren't  doing  a  penn'orth  of 
harm,  as  you  very  well  know,  and  there's  no  call  for 
you  to  bully  us  like  this." 

She  sat  perched  well  above  him,  and  smiled  deliciously 
to  lessen  the  severity  of  her  speech;  but  the  keeper  was 
angry.  He  settled  her  with  a  few  words  and  then  ac- 
costed the  man. 

"  You're  past  praying  for,  seemingly.  Haven't  you  got 
no  self-respect,  girl?  I  suppose  not,  else  you  wouldn't 
be  here.  I  can't  take  you  by  the  neck  and  hale  you 
out ;  but  you'll  hear  more  of  it,  I  warn  you ! "  Then 
he  turned  to  Mr.  Moyle.     "  As  for  you,  you're  different 

—  a  policeman,  and  ought  to  understand  something  of 
what  law  and  order  mean.  But  it  seems  you  know  no 
better  than  to  break  the  law  and  trespass  where  tres- 
passers are  prosecuted.  You  must  come  philandering 
here  with  this  woman  and  — " 

"  Not  at  all  —  not  at  all,"  answered  Frederick.  "  I 
won't  have  Miss  Leaman  spoke  about  rudely  in  my  hear- 
ing, or — " 

They  stood  together,  frowning  into  each  other's  eyes. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  6i 

One  was  much  alarmed,  though  he  pretended  not  to  be; 
the  other  had  lost  his  temper. 

"  You'd  answer  me,  you  brazen  rascal !  "  cried  Snow. 
"  You  think  because  this  stupid  girl  is  here  that  my  hands 
are  tied,  but  I'll  soon  show  you  they're  not.  What  do  I 
care  for  her  feelings  ?  Don't  you  know  her  sort  ?  I  do. 
She  wants  to  see  the  fur  fly.  'Tis  meat  and  drink  to  a 
woman  like  this  woman  to  watch  men  at  each  other's 
throats.  So  take  that  and  be  gone!  And  next  time  I 
catch  you  here,  I'll  give  you  the  properest  hiding  ever 
you  got  in  your  life !  " 

He  struck  Moyle  a  swinging  blow  on  the  side  of  his 
head  and  knocked  his  hat  off.  The  policeman  cried  out, 
then  picked  up  his  hat  and  hastened  down  the  hill.  The 
noise  frightened  some  roosting  pheasants,  and  they  rose 
with  a  great  din  from  a  spruce  close  at  hand.  Mr.  Moyle 
had  turned  very  white  and  trembled  in  every  limb.  But 
he  did  not  come  back.  He  stood  now  below,  twenty 
yards  off  by  the  stream,  and  shouted. 

"  You  shall  rue  this,  Timothy  Snow ;  you  shall  rue  this 
day,  and  God's  my  judge  if  I  don't  pay  you!  You  wait 
till  I  get  my  chance,  and  I'll  make  you  sorry  ever  you 
was  bom !  " 

"  Be  off,  you  rubbish !  "  roared  the  keeper ;  "  and  you 
get  after  him,  you  worthless  thing,"  he  said  to  Audrey. 

But  the  trend  of  affairs  had  rather  served  to  cheer  her. 
She  was  mildly  sorry  for  her  policeman,  for  herself  she 
was  glad.  She  read  jealousy  into  Snow's  behaviour,  and 
took  great  satisfaction  in  his  anger. 

Now  she  assumed  her  haughtiest  manner  and  descended 
very  slowly  from  the  wood  pile. 

"  I  pity  you,"  she  said.  "  I  pity  any  man  who  can  make 
such  a  silly  show  of  himself  for  nothing  at  all.  Didn't  I 
tell  you  that  your  master's  grandson,  Mister  Eustace,  gave 
me  leave  to  come  here  when  I  pleased?  The  Leamans 
aren't  used  to  this  sort  of  behaviour,  and  I'll  thank  you 
never  to  speak  to  me  again,  horrid  ruffian  that  you  are ! 
I've  done  with  you,  and  I'll  let  everybody  know  it,  my 
father  included.     So  now  then  !  " 


62  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  So  long  as  you've  done  with  Yarner,  I  don't  care  a 
button  what  else  you  have  or  haven't  done  with,"  he  an- 
swered. "  And  don't  talk  trash  about  young  Mr.  Cham- 
pernowne  making  you  free  of  the  wood,  because  that's  a 
lie." 

"  I  shall  come  here  when  I  please,  and  go  where  I 
please,  and  stop  as  long  as  I  please,"  retorted  Audrey. 
"  And  when  you  turn  Drusilla  Whyddon  out  of  the 
woods,  then  you  can  turn  me  out,  and  not  sooner." 

She  regretted  this  speech  a  moment  later,  for  Snow 
laughed  at  it. 

"  Ah !  I  see.  Well,  you  take  a  leaf  out  of  that  girl's 
book.  She  can  teach  you  a  lot  worth  your  knowing  — 
including  manners." 

"  Manners  be  your  strong  point,  without  a  doubt," 
retorted  Audrey.  "  Perhaps  you'll  teach  me  how  to  be- 
have pretty  to  my  betters  —  since  you're  so  terrible  clever 
at  it." 

Mr.  Moyle  still  stood  by  the  stream  and  eyed  the 
keeper  with  malignancy. 

"  Come  on,  Audrey,"  he  said.  "  Leave  the  man  to 
think  on  what  I  spoke  to  him.  He's  struck  me,  and  I'll 
strike  him,  come  presently.  But  not  with  fists.  I'll  set- 
tle him  —  I'll  — " 

Then  Timothy  made  a  stride  towards  the  policeman, 
and  Frederick  jumped  over  the  stream. 

"  No,  you  don't!  "  he  said.  "  I'm  not  going  to  batter 
and  bruise  your  body.  'Tis  your  heart  I'll  batter  and 
bruise!  You've  done  for  yourself,  as  sure  as  the  night  is 
down.  I'll  never  forgive  nor  yet  forget  this.  I'll  wait 
for  my  chance  if  'tis  fifty  year  in  coming.  But  I'll  get 
in  the  last  word,  and  you'll  live  to  see  it !  " 

Audrey  Leaman  joined  him. 

"  I've  had  enough,"  she  said. 

They  sank  away  out  of  the  woods,  and  the  line  of  their 
departure  was  marked  for  Timothy  by  the  cry  of  fright- 
ened birds.  But  he  soon  recovered  his  temper,  and 
laughed  grimly  to  himself  before  he  reached  home. 

"  A  pretty  pair.     It  throws  a  light  on  her.     God  knows 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  63 

what  she's  good  for.  Not  much,  seemingly.  To  mari'y 
her !  A  fool's  trick  that ;  and  if  a  man  wasn't  a  fool  be- 
fore, he'd  very  soon  look  a  fool  after.  God  help  any 
decent  chap  out  of  the  clutches  of  they  love-hunting 
women !     A  vampire's  better  than  the  likes  of  them !  " 

Meanwhile  Moyle  and  Audrey  descended  to  the  valley 
and  climbed  out  upon  the  other  side.  They  entered  the 
great  western  wood  of  fir  and  pine,  passed  the  deserted 
copper  mine  that  reared  its  ruined  stack  upon  the  fringes 
of  it,  and  presently  left  the  domains  of  Yarner  behind 
them. 

"  What  awful  jealousy !  "  said  the  girl,  breaking  a 
long  silence. 

But  Mr.  Moyle  would  not  allow  this. 

"  'Twasn't  jealousy.  'Tis  an  evil  spirit  in  the  man, 
more  like.  To  dare  to  lay  his  finger  on  me !  For  two 
pins  I'd  have  smashed  him  where  he  stood !  " 

"  I'd  have  given  you  twenty  pins  to  do  it !  But  don't 
you  be  silly,  Fred.  You're  a  nice,  tame  mouse,  and  I  think 
a  lot  of  you,  but  you  cut  a  terrible  weak  figure  afore  him. 
I  can't  help  laughing,  though  I'm  ever  so  sorry,  all  the 
same." 

The  man  flushed  deeply. 

"  You  wait !  "  he  said.  "  No,  you're  right  —  I'm  not 
the  animal  he  is,  and  I  won't  pretend  it.  I  couldn't  have 
smashed  him;  but  I'll  do  worse  —  I'll  ruin  him.  That's 
not  beyond  my  power,  for  I've  got  tons  more  brains  than 
him.     You  wait  and  see." 

"  And  I'll  help  you  —  if  I  sufl^er  much  more  from  him," 
she  promised.  "  I'm  afraid  he's  got  no  heart.  And  yet 
—  he  wouldn't  have  been  so  madly  jealous  of  you  if  he 
hadn't  felt  angry  to  see  us  together  like  that  in  the  dark. 
Yes,  he  was  jealous  all  right.  I  ought  to  know.  And  I'll 
tell  you  one  thing  that  may  interest  you :  if  I  can't  make 
him  love  me,  I'll  make  him  hate  me." 

"  That's  sense,"  answered  the  other.  "  His  sort  want 
rubbing  in  the  dust.  '  Rubbish,'  mark  you  !  '  Rubbish  ' 
was  the  name  for  me,  and  '  trash  '  for  you.  A  nice  thing ! 
Well,  we'll  see  if  my  rubbish  and  your  trash  can't  — 


64  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Yes,  let  him  wait  and  watch.  I'll  answer  that  blow  and  — 
A  stiff-necked  madman!  Let  him  see  who  laughs  last 
and  longest." 

Audrey  knew  that  the  cowardly  Moyle  was  clever  and 
stood  well  with  his  superiors. 

"  You  wait  for  me,"  she  said.  "  I  feel  just  the  same  as 
you,  and  I'll  take  very  good  care  he  shall  smart  for  this 
sooner  or  later.  But  don't  you  do  anything  in  a  hurry. 
For  that  matter,  there's  nothing  you  can  do  yet." 

"  I  know  that.  I  can  bide  my  time.  The  man's  got 
his  weak  spots,  and  I'll  find  'em  presently." 

"  And  if  you  don't,  I  will,"  promised  Audrey.  But  in 
reality  she  was  not  the  least  concerned  for  her  friend,  nor 
did  she  harbour  genuine  ill-will  towards  Timothy  Snow. 
Indeed,  she  returned  home  in  the  best  of  spirits,  and  con- 
sidered the  day  as  one  well  and  usefully  spent.  She  be- 
lieved that  Timothy  had  flamed  into  a  hearty  jealousy  at 
this  meeting  in  the  woods. 

"  He  shall  meet  me  with  a  man  there  again  afore  long," 
she  told  her  father,  who  listened  with  wonder  at  the  ad- 
venture. "  Yes,  he  shall.  Not  Fred,  though.  He's  had 
his  dose.     I'll  take  somebody  else !  " 

"  Best  you  be  careful,  or  else  you'll  fright  him  off  once 
for  all.  He's  not  the  sort  as  will  let  you  have  your  fill  of 
friends  —  men  or  women.  If  he  thinks  you're  light,  he'll 
look  at  you  no  more." 

"  Leave  him  to  me,"  she  answered  with  misplaced  con- 
fidence. "  You  wait.  I  don't  say  that  I'll  marry  the 
man  yet,  for  there's  a  nasty  side  to  him,  but  I  do  say  I'll 
make  him  want  to  marry  me.     I've  seen  signs." 

The  substance  of  this  interview  Willes  Leaman  related 
presently  to  his  friend,  Lot  Snow,  and  the  latter  was  glad 
to  hear  it. 

"  I  hope  the  maid  be  right.  We  mustn't  hurry  'em. 
But  warn  her  not  to  scare  him.  He's  a  prig,  and  ban't 
ripened  and  mellowed  as  yet.  Let  her  hang  off  a  bit,  and 
see  if  that  will  make  him  a  thought  more  oncoming.  I've 
had  him  here  again,  and  he  don't  want  to  turn  farmer,  so 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  65 

he  still  says.  Patience  be  the  only  thing.  The  young  call 
for  more  and  more  patience  as  the  years  go  by ;  and  they 
have  less  and  less  patience  with  the  old.  A  time's  com- 
ing, Leaman,  when  the  rising  generation  will  make  laws 
to  knock  on  the  head  every  man  past  his  sixtieth  birthday. 
They  can't  believe  in  us  no  more  after  that  age,  and  can't 
allow  that  we  be  worth  our  keep  at  all,  come  we  linger 
on  to  three  score  and  ten." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  GREAT  clash  of  passion  with  conviction  had  begun  in 
Timothy  Snow's  mind.  Until  the  present,  like  most  vir- 
gin-hearted men  he  had  followed  his  mental  bent,  made 
his  own  good,  and  been  exceedingly  well  satisfied  with  his 
own  wits  and  accomplishments ;  but  henceforth  he  began 
to  be  less  affirmed  and  more  moderate  in  his  opinions. 
Happiness  and  security  assumed  a  different  aspect  seen 
through  the  new  emotions  of  his  heart;  days  that  had 
looked  full  and  sufficiently  important  and  interesting  be- 
came empty  and  barren.  He  was  alarmed  about  his 
work,  that  had  until  now  so  amply  sufficed  him,  for  some- 
times it  became  an  actual  trouble.  He  fought  this  mighty 
experience  for  a  little  while,  feared  its  effect  upon  him, 
considered  its  complications  and  sought  to  evade  it.  And 
this  he  did  from  no  consideration  of  temporal  welfare 
or  the  good-will  of  his  Uncle  Lot.  No  minor  argument 
influenced  an  effort  to  escape  from  love,  but  a  major 
fear  that  any  such  circumstance  wovild  come  between 
him  and  his  ideals  of  life  and  lessen  his  usefulness  as  an 
independent  and  unentangled  spirit.  He  had  a  good  deal 
plumed  himself  on  his  wisdom,  and  at  first  he  resented 
this  intrusion  as  a  weakness.  He  believed  that  love  was 
a  mere  trick  of  nature,  and  that  it  were  better  to  recog- 
nise it  as  such  and  evade  it.  He  remembered  a  girl 
who  had  mildly  interested  him  when  he  was  eighteen ; 
and  honestly  he  fancied  that  he  had  experienced  the  true 
passion  already  and,  thanks  to  his  own  strength  of  char- 
acter, escaped  the  consequences.  In  an  early  conversa- 
tion with  Drusilla  he  had  told  her  as  a  fact  that  he  had 
loved.  "  I've  been  through  it  all,"  he  said,  "  and  nothing 
that  can  happen  to  me  can  hurt  me,  because  I've  won 
to  a  bit  of  sense  on  most  subjects,  and  have  put  myself 
out  of  the  reach  of  Nature's  teeth  and  claws.     You  can't 

66 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  67 

trust  her  in  everything,  but  if  you  know  what  designs 
she's  got  on  you,  you  can  be  ready  for  her." 

She  wondered  to  hear  him  talk  so  positively,  but  al- 
ready he  filled  her  life  unknown  to  himself,  and  all  he  did 
was  very  good  to  her,  and  all  he  said  was  very  wise.  She 
blushed  in  secret  after  this  speech  of  his,  because  she 
guessed  that  he  had  seen  that  she  liked  him,  and  was 
warning  her  that  he  stood  above  such  trivial  interests  as 
a  woman  could  furnish.  She  thought  much  upon  him 
and  pondered  his  words.  She  was  observant,  and  per- 
ceived that  the  accident  of  a  solitary  life  and  naturally 
introspective  mind  had  curbed  and  limited  Timothy's 
knowledge  in  many  directions. 

The  keeper,  in  truth,  had  built  a  rule  of  conduct  on 
bases  too  narrow,  and  omitted  from  his  scheme  of  things 
certain  practical  ingredients  impossible  to  ignore.  Trees 
cannot  teach  one  his  obligation  to  his  neighbour,  or  his 
duty  to  himself.  The  hygiene  of  the  young  man's  soul 
called  for  attention ;  it  was  faulty ;  and  now,  to  his  dis- 
comfort, he  began  to  find  this  out.  His  theories  took  a 
new  and  unfamiliar  shape  in  this  light  from  within.  Like 
Plato  before  him,  he  held  the  doubtful  opinion  that  hap- 
piness belongs  to  those  most  free  from  desire ;  and  he 
had  not  perceived  that  he  who  has  strength  to  gratify  his 
desires  —  is  man  enough  to  want  and  man  enough  to  win 
—  feels  a  brighter  fire  and  a  mightier  joy  than  any  con- 
templative spirit  who  has  merely  slain  his  hungers  in  the 
icy  upper  air  of  thought.  He  was  very  raw  and  green 
and  serious-minded ;  he  threatened  to  degenerate  into  an 
arid,  unsympathetic  and  uninteresting  man ;  but  now  the 
magic  cup  was  suddenly  lifted  to  his  lips,  and  at  first  he 
feared  and  hesitated.  For  he  could  fear  and  was  not 
as  brave  as  his  words.  Presently,  however,  a  fume  of 
the  wine  entered  his  brain,  illuminated  it  and  made  all 
things  seem  new.  No  longer  did  he  look  cowardly  on 
the  crisis ;  no  longer  did  he  tremble  for  his  own  future ; 
he  soared  to  a  nobler  height,  became  a  man  and  trembled 
for  his  own  worth.  He  looked  back  and  blushed  that 
he  could  have  thought  of  himself  ;  instead  he  now  scorned 


68  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

himself,  seen  under  this  pure  light.  He  continued  to  be 
uneasy  indeed,  but  it  was  with  a  new  uneasiness :  the 
knowledge  of  his  own  imperfection.  He  drank  the  cup 
and  loved  and  lived  for  this  new  thing,  and  laughed  to 
see  his  careful  edifice  of  theory  and  opinion  swept  down 
the  wind  by  a  woman.  He  abandoned  the  old,  mean, 
spiritless  ideal  of  freedom;  to  be  a  slave  to  such  a  one 
as  Drusilla  was  better  than  all  freedoms.  To  the  cul- 
tured mind  his  change  of  attitude  may  be  explained  in 
terms  of  mighty  names.  Until  the  present,  given  knowl- 
edge of  them,  Timothy  would  doubtless  have  held  the 
happiness  of  a  Socrates  greater  in  degree  than  that  of 
an  Alexander ;  a  Newton's  days  worthier  than  a  Nelson's. 
But  now  his  heart  was  afire  and  aflame  from  the  old 
torch,  and  he  welcomed  the  sting  of  the  burn  as  well  as 
the  glow  of  the  heat.  Indeed,  his  self-restrained  exist- 
ence had  been  a  fitting  prelude  for  this  grander  and  more 
vital  harmony.  He  came  to  it,  at  any  rate,  in  the  day- 
spring  of  his  manhood,  and  its  first  perfect  work  was  to 
correct  his  perspective  of  self  and  make  him  a  more  mod- 
est and  more  humble  creature. 

The  lovers  met  on  the  common  ground  of  the  forest, 
and  Timothy  compared  his  knowledge  with  Drusilla's 
feeling,  and  found  that  her  mind  cast  a  wider  net  than 
his,  and  gathered  from  the  data  of  the  woods  a  sort  of 
lore  they  did  not  spell  to  him.  Flora,  sylva,  fauna  —  all 
were  good  to  her  —  and  sometimes  he  dififered  from  her 
on  questions  of  sentiment,  and  sometimes  he  admitted 
her  point  of  view.  Their  ideas  and  discoveries  were  not 
new  except  to  themselves.  They  were,  of  course,  igno- 
rant, but  they  surprised  each  other  by  display  of  their 
gleanings,  and  the  man  thought  the  woman's  observation 
extraordinary,  and  the  woman  believed  the  man  to  be 
an  amazing  wonder.  Her  view  was  more  poetical  and 
therefore  more  wide  than  his.  "  'Tis  almost  awful  to 
think  of  all  these  countless,  sleepless,  busy  things  grow- 
ing, growing,  growing  night  and  day,  and  bursting  up 
through  the  earth,"  she  said  to  him  on  a  spring  morning. 
"  Think  of  the  terrible  driving  force  behind  bud-break 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  69 

and  the  rush  of  the  sap !  It  frights  me."  He  nodded 
doubtfully,  and  knew  that  his  mind  would  never  have 
made  that  picture.  He  also  knew  that  the  thought  was 
very  significant. 

In  the  matter  of  sentiment  they,  as  yet,  had  offered  no 
mutual  interchanges ;  but  spring  was  on  the  girl's  side 
there,  and  spring  now  precipitated  the  situation. 

As  for  Drusilla,  there  had  awakened  in  her  heart  the 
most  passionate  love.  She  hid  it  carefully  till  she  found 
that  she  interested  Timothy ;  and  this  fact,  after  compar- 
ing her  private  experience  of  him  with  the  opinion  that 
he  had  created  elsewhere,  she  could  not  fail  to  perceive ; 
because  from  all  others,  both  men  and  women,  he  was 
indifferent  and  aloof,  while  his  attitude  to  her  had  al- 
ways revealed  a  very  real,  if  reserved,  friendliness. 
When  he  had  seen  her,  he  had  gone  out  of  his  way  to 
meet  her.  Then  he  had  offered  to  show  her  things  in 
the  woods,  and  she,  growing  brave  gradually,  had  plumbed 
his  interests  and  found  how  she  could  improve  his  knowl- 
edge of  Yarner  in  certain  particulars.  From  casual 
meetings  he  made  appointments.  Then  came  a  Sunday 
when  he  and  his  mother  drank  tea  with  Drusilla  and  her 
aunt. 

Her  life  was  full  to  overflowing  with  him,  and  the  day 
that  she  saw  him  was  a  golden  day,  no  matter  how  grey 
the  sky;  and  the  days  that  she  saw  him  not  were  dor- 
mant and  of  little  worth  save  for  thinking  on  him.  He 
burst  into  her  uneventful  life  as  sight  upon  the  blind; 
he  filled  existence  with  freshness  and  flavour  and  joy ; 
but  he  brought,  too,  the  unrest  of  doubt  and  awakened 
deep  self-depreciation.  He  sharpened  up  every  outlook 
as  love  is  wont  to  do;  he  made  her  wakefuller,  keener, 
even  less  morbid ;  he  woke  reflections  in  her  that  were 
beyond  the  reach  of  his  own  intellect. 

And  when  she  knew,  through  the  speech  of  his  eyes 
and  the  tremor  of  his  hand  and  the  backward  glance  at 
parting  and  the  quickened  step  at  meeting,  that  he  loved 
her;  when  she  accepted  his  little  gifts  and  saw  his  hand 
grasp  close  on  her  first  present  of  a  flower,  then  life  for 


70  Tlili  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL 

lier  todk  tlie  very  substance  ami  g(;)1(lcn  Ircnior  of  the 
spring  forest  and  was  in  harmony  with  the  hour.  The 
passion  conceived  in  winter  was  born  in  spring,  and,  as 
became  such  a  woodland  pair,  it  flowed  sweetly  to  its 
place,  and,  like  a  crystal  rivulet,  served  to  swell  an  all- 
embracing  river  of  love,  that  now  ran  with  much  music 
through  this  forest  world. 

The  man,  entering  upon  his  tenderest  experience,  was 
taken  out  of  himself  a  little  and  touched,  though  he  knew 
it  not,  for  under  this  wakening  hour  of  sap  and  scent  and 
soft  winds,  a  breath  of  Drusilla's  hopeful  spirit  dawned 
in  him  for  a  season.  He  could  not  feel  that  all  was  ill 
with  the  larger  world  while  all  went  so  well  with  his  own. 
He  knew,  presently,  that  she  loved  him,  as  she  knew 
that  he  loved  her ;  but  the  sensation  was  so  delicious, 
and  the  experience  of  their  growing  understanding  and 
increasing  friendship  so  fragrant  to  his  spirit,  that  he 
hesitated  to  speak.  The  fruit  was  ready  for  his  pluck- 
ing, but  he  delayed,  out  of  sheer  love  for  its  beauty,  and 
also  from  joy  in  his  power  that  could  win  so  great  a 
treasure. 

He  came  one  day  to  the  forest  that  he  might  find  her, 
and,  instead,  fell  in  with  another  woman. 

At  the  entrance  to  the  woods  a  lake  of  primroses  shone 
and  rippled  and  foamed  away  faintly  into  the  shadowy 
dingles  round  about.  Through  the  mesh  of  the  birches, 
where  it  spread  in  a  close  network  of  brown  and  dun, 
now  hovered  a  delicate  mist  of  green  —  the  first  radiant 
spring  light  of  the  year.  Even  in  shadow  this  verdancy 
was  brilliant  enough,  but  where  sunshine  touched  the 
wood  it  ran  flame  bright,  fluttered  like  a  torn  veil,  through 
the  burnished  splendours  of  the  birch  stems  and  made  the 
way  dazzling. 

It  seemed  that  this  vernal  time  was  a  season  of  youth, 
and  the  lesser  things  —  the  rowan,  thorn,  and  birch  — 
answered  to  the  call  of  the  hour,  drenched  the  underwood 
with  manifold  young  greens,  and  set  sylvan  life  dancing 
in  adventurous  joy  and  childish  beauty  beneath  the  still 
sleeping,   statelier,   and  mightier  fathers    of   the   wood. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  71 

The  grey  congregation  of  the  oaks  as  yet  showed  no  leaf, 
though  their  twisted  branches  were  heavily  gemmed  with 
agate  and  amber  buds ;  the  pine  and  spruce  were  dark ; 
the  ash  had  shaken  forth  nothing  but  her  tufts  of  sad- 
coloured  flowers.  Here  and  there  the  lower  arms  of  a 
sheltered  beech  glimmered  with  translucent  leaves,  and 
emerald  tents  of  the  larch  were  unfurled  again  upon  the 
hills ;  but  for  the  most  part  this  was  the  hour  of  the 
young  things,  and  they  spread  a  haze  of  dim  or  brilliant 
green  beneath  the  brown  and  grey  of  the  forest.  It 
might  have  been  marked  of  the  silver  birches  how  their 
precocity  varied,  for  here  and  there  a  little  tree  had 
broken  into  full  life,  while  its  neighbours  lingered  in 
their  winter  wear.  On  all  sides  green  shouldered  green, 
from  the  restrained  jade  of  the  sallow  and  rowan  — 
grey  against  the  violent  verdure  of  larch  and  breaking 
beech,  to  the  shadowy  haunts  at  stream  side  where  ferns 
were  unfurling  their  crooks  of  russet  and  olive  and  the 
golden  saxifrages  hung  in  a  curtain  to  the  water's 
edge. 

There  was  a  little  clump  of  rhododendron  nigh  the  en- 
trance of  the  wood,  and  its  flowers  were  dear  to  Drusilla. 
No  bud  had  swelled  as  yet,  but  the  plants  were  a  con- 
spicuous object  and  a  familiar  tryst.  Timothy  came  here 
now,  to  find  himself  alone,  but  he  heard  a  woman  singing 
not  very  far  off  and  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  the 
song. 

Here  great  cushions  of  moss  rose  above  the  bright 
growth  of  the  red-belled  whortle,  where  it  blossomed  and 
hid  the  grey,  oak-leaf  carpet  of  the  wood.  But  Drusilla 
did  not  appear ;  instead,  the  keeper  caught  sight  of  Audrey 
Leaman  picking  primroses. 

They  had  met  several  times  since  their  quarrel  in  the 
woods,  and  Timothy  now  understood  that  the  girl  might 
go  there  when  she  chose.  She  knew  his  secret,  but  he 
did  not  know  that  she  knew  it.  Yet  still  she  hoped  and 
still  she  strove  to  win  him.  And  this  she  did  not  out  of 
love,  and  from  no  special  regard  towards  him  or  con- 
sideration of  those  who  desired  the  match,  but  because 


^2.  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

she  had  failed  to  win  him,  and  such  a  failure  over  man 
hurt  her  predatory  instincts. 

"  Why  for  do  you  pick  the  things?  "  he  asked.  "  Who 
wants  'em  ?  " 

"  Ah !  Who,  I  wonder  ?  You'd  want  'em  fast  enough 
if  somebody's  hands  had  picked  'em.  A  flower  depends 
for  value  on  the  fingers  that  hold  it,  or  the  breast  that 
wears  it.  Don't  go  —  talk  to  me.  I'm  lonely.  Why  are 
you  such  a  stand-offish  chap  ?  " 

"  Am  I  ?  'Tis  along  of  having  lived  such  a  lonely  life, 
perhaps." 

She  expanded  in  male  atmosphere  as  usual. 

"  O  God,  Timothy !  "  she  exclaimed,  calling  him  by  his 
given  name  for  the  first  time,  "  the  Spring  —  the  Spring 
—  it  makes  me  mad !  " 

She  sucked  in  the  soft  air,  and  her  bosom  heaved  and 
her  eyes  shone.  Then  she  buried  her  face  in  the  prim- 
roses she  carried  and  nuzzled  them. 

"Does  it?"  he  asked.  "'Tis  different  with  me.  It 
makes  me  sane,  I  reckon." 

"  You're  such  a  hard,  cruel  chap,"  she  answered,  her 
heart  beating  with  hope  at  his  amiable  manner.  "  I'm 
sure  no  girl's  ever  wanted  to  pleasure  you  more'n  I  have, 
and  yet  —  we  get  no  forwarder !  You've  never  so  much 
as  asked  me  to  go  for  a  walk  with  you." 

"  I'm  not  your  sort,  and  you  well  know  it." 

"  I  like  all  sorts." 

"  Then  you're  not  my  sort,"  he  answered.  "  What 
manner  of  use  is  a  girl  that  likes  all  sorts  ?  Worse  than 
useless,  I  reckon  —  a  danger  to  herself  and  everybody 
else." 

"  Don't  you  preach  —  you're  a  lot  too  wise,  I'm  sure. 
And  if  I'm  wrong,  'tis  your  place  to  set  me  right.  You  can 
teach  other  girls  all  manner  of  interesting  things  —  why 
can't  you  be  nice  to  me  ?  " 

She  came  close  to  him,  and  marked  where  his  eyes 
penetrated  the  woods  and  looked  for  another  figure. 
There  came  a  sudden,  harsh  cry,  and  Audrey  saw  a  mag- 
pie swoop  down  and  attack  a  starling. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  73 

"  O  Lord !  look  at  that !  "  she  cried.  "  I've  been  watch- 
ing that  poor  bird  a  long  time.  He's  got  a  broken  wing 
and  can  only  creep  about.     Go  and  rescue  him !  " 

But  Timothy  refused.  The  magpie,  fastening  on  the 
wounded  weakling,  flung  it  over  and  began  to  peck  its 
head  and  hammer  its  life  out.  The  starling  screamed 
pitifully  but  was  powerless. 

"  If  you  won't,  I  will,"  said  Audrey,  starting  forward. 
To  her  delight  he  stopped  her  with  his  hands,  and  she 
felt  them  on  her  shoulders.  She  admired  them,  and 
noted  how  square  the  fingers  were,  and  how  hairy  be- 
tween the  knuckles. 

"  You  cruel  wretch  —  it's  like  murder !  " 

''  I  know  that  starling,"  said  Timothy.  "  I've  been 
minded  to  kill  it  many  a  day,  but  with  spring  there  was 
a  chance  it  might  enjoy  its  life  a  bit  longer.  But  you 
see  —  there's  no  security  for  the  weak  in  Nature.  She's 
always  on  the  look-out  to  stop  waste  and  cut  a  loss. 
Better  that  failure  of  a  bird  should  make  a  meal  for  some 
prosperous  creature  than  eat  more  food  himself.  It's 
only  man  keeps  his  weeds  in  hothouses." 

"  It's  dying,  poor  wretch." 

"  It's  dead,"  he  answered. 

The  starling  perished,  and  the  magpie  dragged  it  vic- 
toriously away. 

"  That's  what  is  happening  everywhere,"  said  Timothy. 
"  Everything  must  eat,  and  the  moment  a  creature  gets 
weak,  in  these  woods,  then  there's  a  thousand  quick  eyes 
ready  to  note  the  weakness  and  take  advantage  of  it. 
You  either  eat  or  else  you're  eaten.  That's  the  law  of 
life." 

"  What  a  beastly  thing  death  is !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  It 
seems  indecent  to  see  anything  die  to-day." 

"  They're  dying  round  you  in  swarms  every  day  and 
every  night  and  every  hour." 

"  You've  scratched  your  hand,"  she  said. 

"  'Tis  an  old  wound." 

She  considered  how  she  might  lure  him  on  a  little,  and 
whether  indeed  it  would  prove  possible. 


74  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  I  hurt  myself  a  bit  ago  —  tore  my  stocking  and  my 
calf  under  it."  She  pulled  up  her  gown  nearly  to 
her  knee  and  lifted  her  foot  on  a  stone.  "  How's  that 
for  an  ankle?  "  she  asked,  admiring  her  own  slim  leg  very 
heartily. 

But  he  had  no  praise  for  it. 

"  Too  thin,"  he  said,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Ah !  "  she  answered,  putting  down  her  foot,  "  perhaps 
you'll  live  to  know  the  thin  sort  are  worth  a  thousand  of 
the  others !  But  I  suppose  you  like  the  full-blown,  cow- 
hocked  fashion  of  women  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.     There's  a  happy  medium." 

His  eye  still  ranged  the  woods,  and  now  he  saw  what 
he  wanted  to  see  and  prepared  to  depart. 

"  There  she  is,"  said  Audrey  ;  "  now  you  go  and  tell  her 
I'm  too  thin.  All  the  same,  I  don't  reckon  Drusilla's  any 
fatter  than  me.     Is  she,  now  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  She  haven't  asked  me  to 
praise  her  ankles." 

"  Oh,  get  along  with  you ! "  answered  the  other. 
"  You're  a  narrow-minded,  silly  fool,  and  you  don't  de- 
serve to  have  any  women  friends,  I'm  sure.  And  the 
end  of  it  will  be  you  won't  have  any.  And  I  wish  you'd 
never  come  to  these  parts  at  all,  for  we  all  got  on  very 
well  without  you." 


CHAPTER  IX 

Now  Timothy  met  Drusilla,  and  they  came  together  as 
familiar  friends  whose  amity  was  based  on  a  long  under- 
standing. She  knew  all  that  was  in  his  mind  about  her, 
but  first  shyness  resulting  from  the  knowledge  had 
passed,  and  she  found  this  period  of  waiting  for  his  word 
not  painful ;  while  he,  too,  delayed  to  speak  because  the 
present  was  very  good  to  him,  and  he  lacked  the  ex- 
perience to  know  how  much  more  precious  the  future 
would  be.  As  yet  he  guessed  not  what  it  would  mean  to 
kiss  her,  and  feel  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  her  breast 
against  his  own. 

Drusilla  sorrowed  now  for  being  late,  and  explained 
that  she  could  stop  but  a  few  moments.  Her  aunt  was  ill 
and  she  had  little  leisure. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  poor  old  thing  won't  be  here  much 
longer  —  then  what  shall  I  do,  I  wonder  ?  "  she  said.  But 
he  knew  that  she  must  have  fathomed  the  nature  of  her 
future. 

"  The  sooner  she's  gone,  the  better,"  he  answered. 
"  She's  no  more  use,  and  she  don't  get  much  more  pleasure 
out  of  being  alive,  I  should  reckon." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  does  —  on  her  good  days.  She's  so 
wasted  that  the  cold  torments  her,  and  she  can't  catch 
heat,  do  what  I  will." 

"  'Tis  very  cold  and  snow  about,"  he  said,  looking  up- 
wards. A  north  wind  shouted  through  the  tree-tops, 
and  the  day  from  being  sunny  had  turned  grey. 

"  Yes.  Spring  seems  to  have  stopped,  and  all  the 
young  green  leaves  at  the  top  of  the  wood  are  shivering 
and  wishing  themselves  back  in  their  buds  again.  'Tis 
strange  what  frail  things  some  of  the  spring  flowers  are. 
The  sorrel,  for  instance.  You'd  think  the  hail-storms 
and  bitterness  of  these  nights  would  be  too  much  for 

75 


y(i  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

such  a  dinky  thing.  You'd  reckon  'twas  a  creature  for 
summer  and  sun." 

He  nodded. 

"  Just  such  a  fancy  as  you  might  have.  The  times  and 
seasons  of  things  be  very  interesting,  no  doubt.  'Tis 
strange  why  a  tender  creature  Hke  that  should  come  afore 
snow  is  past,  and  all  those  great,  coarse,  lumpy,  yellow 
flowers  should  wait  for  August." 

"  I  like  ploughman's  spikenard,  though  —  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  know  it  —  not  by  name,"  he  confessed. 
"  You'll  have  to  teach  me  a  lot  about  plants  come  the 
summer." 

She  was  doubtful. 

"  We  look  at  things  so  different.  I  can't  teach  you, 
but  you  can  teach  me." 

"  No,  we  don't  —  we  don't  look  at  things  different,"  he 
answered  eagerly.  "  'Tis  only  here  and  there  you  are 
too  soft  about  what  happens.  No  use  worrying  over  what 
can't  be  helped ;  but  you  do,  and  that's  to  waste  time  and 
energy." 

"  I  know  —  I'm  a  silly  fool.  There's  so  much  to  make 
you  sorry  in  a  wood.  You  can't  help  pitying  many  things 
—  useless  though  it  is  to  do  it.  They  begin  so  happily 
and  hopefully  —  all  these  young  creatures  so  green  and 
fresh  now.  I  seem  to  know  how  they  feel ;  but  I  know 
the  future  better  than  them.  I  could  tell  them  what's  in 
store  if  they  could  hear.  Because,  when  the  big  trees 
over  their  heads  come  out,  all  these  little  ones  will  be 
smothered  and  lose  their  share  of  air  and  light  and  rain. 
By  full  summer  they  are  sad  and  sickly;  and  the  leaves 
turn  pale  in  autumn  instead  of  being  red  and  orange  and 
lovely ;  they  get  white  and  ill  and  wretched.  And  when 
the  air  and  sunshine  come  into  the  wood  when  the  leaf 
of  the  trees  is  down,  all  the  small  things  seem  to  grow 
hopeful  again.  And  the  same  happens  other  ways.  Look 
at  the  birds  and  beasts  —  all  after  each  other  —  and  you 
after  them." 

He  laughed. 

"  And  my  master  after  me.    If  I  don't  shoot  the  hawks 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  ^j 

and  jays,  I'd  not  be  earning  my  money,  though  I've  no 
quarrel  with  the  creatures  that  have  to  go  on  my  gallows. 
But  they're  in  the  way  and  must  get  out  of  it.  Go  on 
pitying  the  trees  and  birds,  if  it  makes  you  feel  better, 
and  pity  all  that  is  ruined  under  rust  and  canker  and 
blight  and  rot  and  death.  Pity  the  poor,  crushed  worms 
even ;  but  don't  pity  the  human  worms  —  mind  that ! 
Only  pitiable  things  want  pity  or  sink  to  seek  after  it. 
I  know  the  creeping,  mean-spirited  sort  —  worms  all." 

"  Oughtn't  we  to  help  the  weak,  then  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "  not  as  you  do.  You're  too  fond 
of  giving  the  weak  your  time  and  cleverness  and  thoughts 
—  lumping  'em  all  in  and  spending  hours  to  your  own 
loss.  You're  always  helping  worms,  and  what's  the  end 
of  it?  They  eat  you  —  alive  or  dead  —  they  eat  you. 
It's  all  one.  I've  marked  that  fungus  sort  for  years,  and 
I  tell  you  to  keep  free  of  'em  and  spend  your  precious 
time  on  yourself.  And  he  yourself  —  a  healthy,  hearty 
woman.  D'you  want  to  go  down,  and  be  smothered  like 
these  here  young  trees  you  pity  ?  No,  you  want  to  grow 
and  get  your  share  of  good  things,  like  the  big  ones,  and 
take  your  place  along  with  the  best,  and  put  out  flowers 
and  fruit.  D'you  want  to  rot  away  and  make  food  for 
other  plants  to  batten  on?  Thrive  and  flourish  I  say, 
and  take  with  both  hands  and  give  joy  to  your  equals  — 
them  that  can  feel  joy.  Why  d'you  want  to  waste  your 
time  on  failures,  and  lose  good  hours  and  days  and 
weeks?  'Tis  like  lopping  off  your  limbs,  so  that  lesser 
things  than  yourself  shall  suck  your  share  of  sunlight  and 
drink  your  share  of  rain.  Let  the  dirty  little  herbs  and 
weeds  fight  for  themselves;  and  if  they  can't  win,  let 
'em  go  under  and  make  way  for  better  things.  Take  all 
you  can  get  —  and  keep  it.  Nature  don't  like  us  any  the 
better  for  being  too  generous  of  her  gifts.  She  gave  you 
your  time  and  your  strength  to  get  joy  out  of,  not  to 
squander.  That  hateful  girl,  singing  over  there  in  the 
primroses,  knows  that  better  than  you  do."  He  pointed 
where  Audrey's  voice  came  faintly  from  far  off. 

"  I'm  more  selfish  than  you  think,  Timothy." 


78  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  Are  yoii,  Drusilla?     I  wish  you  were." 

"  How  pretty  she  is  —  Audrey  Leaman,  I  mean." 

"  So  they  tell  me,  but  I  haven't  marked  it  for  myself. 
I  don't  like  her  sort.  To  me  she's  more  like  a  naughty, 
wilful  boy  than  like  a  girl." 

The  listener  did  not  know  Audrey,  and  had  no  inkling 
as  yet  of  the  delicate  relation  in  which  she  stood  to 
Timothy  Snow.  He  had  not  told  her  of  the  plans  in  his 
uncle's  mind,  and  did  not  intend  to  do  so  until  Drusilla 
promised  to  marry  him. 

"  Her  lovely  eyes !  " 

"  Shifty !  She's  a  flippity-gibbet  of  a  girl.  I  pity  any 
man  wedded  to  her." 

"  She'll  be  very  well-to-do,  for  she's  the  only  one." 

"  She'll  want  curb  and  snaffle  and  a  heavy  hand." 

They  stood  a  moment  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  where 
more  primroses  starred  the  way  and  cuddled  into  the 
knotted  knees  and  elbows  of  great  tree  roots. 

"  Poor  girl  —  I  hope  she'll  pick  the  right  one  —  out  of 
so  many  that  are  after  her." 

"  Pity  again.  She's  not  poor.  I  must  look  after  your 
mind  on  that  subject.  'Tis  a  weakness  and  not  a  virtue, 
Drusilla.  Be  weak  and  you're  like  that  thing  there : 
weaker  than  yourself  find  you  out,  and  stick  their  claws 
into  you  and  trust  you  to  help  them  along."  He  pointed 
to  the  stump  of  a  dead  tree  —  a  ruin  whereon  the  tough 
and  livid  lobes  of  great  fungi  prospered  and  thrust  out 
in  a  cornice,  tier  above  tier.  "  Not  till  a  good  tree  was 
marred  could  that  trash  prosper  on  it,"  said  Timothy. 
"  Keep  healthy  and  you'll  escape  the  dingers  and  suckers 
and  pests ;  but  once  you  get  weak,  they'll  be  down  on 
you." 

"  Pity's  akin  to  love,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  face 
tenderly. 

He  returned  her  look,  and  there  was  a  glow  in  his  eyes 
that  belied  his  answer. 

"  And  so  are  some  other  beastly  things  akin  to  love. 
Let's  be  done  with  them  and  see  what  love  looks  like 
without  'em." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  79 

She  trembled  and  shut  her  eyes,  for  it  seemed  that  the 
great  moment  had  come.  But  he  said  no  more  then,  and 
did  not  offer  to  see  her  home.  Instead  he  fell  into  a 
silence  and  followed  his  own  thoughts  for  awhile.  Anon 
he  took  a  gentle  leave  of  her,  and  reminded  her  that 
she  and  Miss  Widger  were  to  drink  tea  with  his  mother 
on  the  following  evening. 

"  And  if  she  can't  come,  you  come  without  her,"  he 
said. 

Alone,  she  went  her  way,  but  stopped  when  he  was  out 
of  sight  and  sat  on  a  tree  root  and  reflected  and  won- 
dered. She  had  more  experience  of  men  than  Timothy  of 
women,  for  a  man  had  loved  her  fiercely  and  exhausted 
his  resources  in  the  struggle  to  win  her.  She  remembered 
his  love-making,  and  contrasted  his  obstinacy  and  persist- 
ent application  with  Timothy's  delay  and  calm  and  over- 
mastering might.  His  self-control  in  love  resembled  his 
self-control  in  all  else.  But  the  other  had  not  been  self- 
controlled.  John  Redstone's  passion  and  the  devotion 
of  Timothy  Snow  seemed  to  Drusilla  at  the  two  poles  of 
love-making.  One  was  a  headstrong,  petulant  boy ;  the 
other,  a  restrained  and  powerful  man.  Yet  she  knew 
what  kisses  meant  and  a  man's  arm  holding  her  to  himself. 
The  experiences  had  been  forced  upon  her  and  given  her 
no  joy,  but  she  remembered  them  very  well  and  desired 
to  taste  them  again.  She  blushed  to  herself  at  her 
thoughts,  and  felt  that  the  very  birds  must  know  her 
longing. 

"  Oh,  to  sit  on  his  lap  and  cuddle  close,  close,  close  to 
him !  "  she  whispered  to  her  heart. 

In  the  silence  she  heard  Audrey  still  singing,  felt  kindly 
to  the  girl,  and  wished  that  they  knew  each  other. 

Presently  she  went  home,  wondering  how  much  longer 
it  would  be  before  Timothy  spoke. 

"  He's  so  terrible  interested  in  everything  and  even  in 
my  stupid  ideas,  that  the  moment  I  start  a  subject  he  goes 
off  on  it  and  forgets  all  about  —  me,"  she  thought,  half 
ruefully,  half  smiling. 


CHAPTER  X 

The  time  had  indeed  come  for  Timothy  Snow  to  speak, 
and  he  knew  it.  To  postpone  such  a  task  did  not  belong  to 
his  nature,  and  he  appointed  the  day  and  hour  with  him- 
self. Then  accident  brought  him  and  Drusilla  together 
at  a  familiar  place  but  a  strange  time. 

He  roamed  the  woods  on  a  still  night,  thought  of  his 
sweetheart  asleep,  and  wondered  if  she  dreamed  of  him. 
Then,  by  the  rhododendrons  in  the  darkness,  somebody 
moved,  and  he  turned  that  way,  and  cried  out  and  Dru- 
silla answered. 

His  surprise  was  extreme,  for  the  girl  had  appeared  to 
him  easily  alarmed.  She  was  fearful  of  firearms,  and 
timorous  of  fellow-creatures  after  nightfall.  But  now  he 
learned  that  the  darkness  was  a  time  loved  by  her,  and 
that  often  she  sought  it  to  soothe  troubled  thoughts. 

On  the  canvas  of  night  and  gloom  she  projected  no 
horrible  phantoms,  and  at  such  times  even  the  secret 
places  of  the  woods  awoke  no  fear  for  her.  Even  in 
childhood,  when  other  little  ones,  under  a  natural  de- 
pression that  springs  from  the  dark,  would  lose  their 
courage  and  fly  from  these  sombre  precincts,  her  heart 
beat  no  quicker  and  her  young  spirit  suflfered  no  abate- 
ment of  serenity.  She  loved  the  night  and  the  children 
of  the  night.  Fearless  as  they  were,  she  moved  among 
them  and  desired  a  companion  no  more  than  she  did  at 
any  other  time.  Her  nervous  energy  was  not  lowered 
for  the  lack  of  the  joy  of  day;  and  no  fancies  or  fears 
sprang  upon  her  out  of  the  nocturnal  loneliness.  She 
had  declared  as  much  to  Timothy,  but  in  his  heart  he 
disbelieved  her,  for  he  had  never  yet  met  a  woman  who 
did  not  fear  to  go  alone  through  a  forest  by  night. 

Now,  however,  the  case  was  proved,  and  he  exclaimed 
with  wonder. 

8b 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  8i 

"  'Tis  no  new  thing  for  me,"  she  said.  "  You  came  so 
quick  and  I  was  thinking  so  deep  that  I  hadn't  time  to 
be  gone.  If  I'd  stopped  where  I  was  you'd  have  brushed 
against  me  in  another  minute." 

"  Thinking?  "  he  said.     "  What  about?  " 

"  I've  got  a  good  bit  to  think  upon.  But  I  was  only 
thinking  of  the  stars  just  that  minute.  A  great  star  hung 
hke  a  dewdrop  to  the  pine  tree  bough.  Then  it  slipped 
away  into  the  tree  and  I  saw  no  more  of  it.  'Tis  strange 
that  just  a  leaf  or  a  bough  can  hide  a  star,  when  you  think 
how  terrible  big  the  stars  really  are." 

"Ban't  you  cold?" 

"  No." 

"  I  wish  you'd  been  thinking  a  bit  upon  me." 

"  Perhaps  I  was,  Timothy." 

"  Come  here,"  he  said.  "  Come  to  that  old  water- 
trough  yonder  and  pitch  along  with  me  for  two  minutes, 
then  I'll  see  you  home.  To  think  of  you  roaming  out 
here!  And  I  pictured  you  asleep  with  your  lovely  hair 
all  spread  out  on  your  pillow." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  he  heard  her  quickened 
breathing. 

"  I  was  going  to  talk  solemn  and  serious  to  you  next 
Sunday  afternoon,  Drusilla,  but  it  looks  as  if  chance 
didn't  want  me  to  put  it  off  no  more.  And  why  not 
now  ?  I  can  touch  you  if  I  can't  see  you.  Sit  here  close 
—  close  to  me.  Just  this  once  —  very  close  to  me.  You 
can  jump  up  and  go  away  quick  if  you  don't  like  what  I 
tell  you." 

The  woods  sighed  gently,  invisible  around  and  about. 
Beneath  the  trees  a  nocturnal  rustle  came  and  went ;  afar 
off  an  owl  cried  and  another  answered  it.  But  these 
sounds  were  not  loud  enough  to  stay  the  fierce  breath  of 
the  man  and  woman.  Each  knew  all  that  the  other 
wanted.     There  was  no  love-making  now. 

Drusilla  obeyed  him  and  sat  close  to  his  side.  Then 
he  spoke  —  in  a  tone  she  had  not  heard  until  then. 

"  Come  into  my  arms,  for  the  love  of  God !  "  A  spark 
had  flashed  between  them,  and  the  moment  in  both  hearts 

6 


82  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

was  harmonious  and  perfect  and  splendid.  Never  did 
lovers  leap  together  in  a  first  embrace  so  overwhelming. 
Both  felt  the  sublime  abandonment ;  they  seemed  to  step 
out  of  themselves  for  a  glorious  and  naked  moment ;  then 
each  donned  the  love  of  the  other  for  a  garment  and  was 
clothed  again. 

He  picked  her  up  and  held  her  in  his  lap  and  showered 
kiss  after  kiss  upon  her  face  and  hair  and  ears ;  and  she 
repaid  the  kisses,  and  touched  his  face  and  neck  with  her 
quick  hands  and  stroked  his  bare  head  and  rubbed  her 
cheek  against  him.  Darkness  was  on  their  side ;  for  a 
long  time  sheer  ecstasy  held  them  while  they  panted  into 
each  other's  faces.  Then  the  woman  tired  and  drooped 
and  sighed  —  a  long,  happy  sigh. 

"  And  this  is  love !  "  he  said.  "  To  think  —  and  no 
word  spoken  —  and  yet  you  know  I  love  you  with  all  my 
soul  and  strength,  Drusilla,  and  you  love  me  the  same 
way." 

"  'Tis  too  good  —  I  shall  wake  up  presently  and  find 
I've  fallen  asleep  under  my  rhododendron  bush." 

"  Please  God  we'll  wake  up  never,  but  live  as  we  feel 
now  and  go  on  loving  —  better,  better,  if  'tis  possible  to 
do  it." 

"  I  could  sit  here,  in  your  dear  lap,  for  evermore  — 
Tim." 

"  Ah  !  what  a  lot  that  means  to  me  —  that  short '  Tim  ' ! 
And  you  won't  be  in  my  lap  oftener  than  I  want  you  to 
be." 

They  babbled  a  while  longer,  and  he  exclaimed  at  their 
childishness. 

"  To  think  two  sensible  people,  like  my  girl  and  me, 
can  sit  here  waiting  for  dawn  with  no  more  sense  between 
us  than  a  pair  of  squirrels !  " 

**  We  can't  always  be  thinking.  Let  me  just  feel  to- 
night—  just  feel  to  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart  —  that 
I've  never  been  alive  before,  and  that  never  a  moment 
in  the  sunshine  will  ever  come  up  to  this  starry  hour 
along  with  my  own  darling  boy.  Oh!  to  go  back  and 
remember  all  my  fears  and  quakes  —  no,  don't  be  kissing 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  83 

me  any  more  —  I  must  talk.  Fears  and  quakes  and  —  yes, 
go  on  kissing  —  it's  life  to  feel  your  lips  on  my  skin!  — 
Fears  that  you  was  cooling  off  sometimes,  and  that  you'd 
never  be  able  to  do  with  such  a  stupid  creature.  And 
then  hopes,  too  —  hopes  some  days,  when  Fd  pleased 
you  and  you  seemed  more  interested,  and  great  hopes 
when  you  arranged  to  meet  me  again  before  we  parted. 
But  once  we  parted  and  you  didn't  say  a  word  about  meet- 
ing no  more,  and  my  little,  silly  heart  was  in  my  shoon 
for  three  days  till  I  saw  you  again  and  found  you  was 
glad  to  see  me." 

"  Glad!  If  you'd  only  known  how  you  stood  between 
me  and  everything,  how  I  sighed  and  fretted  and  even 
caught  myself  out  in  a  crooked  word  now  and  then,  when 
days  went  and  I  didn't  get  a  sight  of  you.  Why,  till  I 
thought  —  till  I  began  to  think  you  liked  me  — " 

"  I  tried  so  hard  to  hide  it !  " 

"  But  you  couldn't  —  not  from  me.  And  then,  when 
something  told  me  I  was  all  right,  I  felt  'twas  such  a 
glorious  state  between  us  that  I  couldn't  dream  anything 
much  more  glorious,  and  put  off  speaking  —  like  the  fool 
I  was." 

"  This  is  better,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  how  Fve  loved  you, 
and  poured  out  my  love  for  you  on  my  knees  of  a  night, 
and  very  nearly  fainted  sometimes  for  all  I  felt.  And 
now  I  belong  to  you  —  to  do  just  what  you  please  with 
for  ever  and  ever;  and  Fll  hold  nought  too  hard  and 
nought  unwelcome  that  can  help  to  make  you  happy." 

"You  darling,  blessed  thing!"  he  cried  out.  " 'Tis 
almost  too  much  when  you  say  such  wonderful,  beautiful 
speeches  to  me.  Who  am  I  to  have  won  the  likes  of 
you?  I  can't  believe  it  yet.  Maybe  I  shan't  believe  it 
till  Fve  got  you  wed  and  safe  for  ever." 

"  Safe  enough,"  she  said.  "  There  was  never  any  man 
in  the  world  for  me  till  I  saw  you,  and  there  never  will 
another." 

He  strained  her  to  his  body,  and  she  clung  there  with 
utter  joy.  Time  raced  for  them,  and  presently  a  glim- 
mering light  touched  the  faces  that  had  pressed  so  close 


84  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

together,  surprised  their  rapture  and  showed  them  to 
each  other.  The  sight  awoke  new  happiness:  they  fed 
each  on  the  other's  features,  and  forgot  the  face  of  the 
dawn. 

It  was  nearly  four  o'clock,  and  the  stars  had  long  since 
vanished  under  a  universal  curtain  of  cloud.  The  thin, 
cold  light  crept  among  the  trees,  and  at  a  moment  when 
the  man  and  woman  were  making  their  hundredth  fare- 
well, suddenly,  as  though  a  baton  invisible  had  waved  a 
signal  to  them,  there  began  the  aubade  of  a  thousand 
birds.  The  matin  music  filtered  through  the  wood, 
throbbed  at  hand  and  faded  away  till  only  the  far-off 
murmur  of  it  came  dimly  through  the  passing  silence  of 
the  nearer  songsters.  It  flowed  through  the  forest  —  a 
medley  of  small,  staccato  sounds,  shrill  and  sweet,  against 
the  loud  tenor  of  the  thrush,  and  the  deeper  contralto  of 
the  blackbird. 

Timothy  and  Drusilla  planned  to  meet  again  in  the 
evening  of  that  day,  and  both  declared  that  it  would  be 
an  eternity  before  they  did  so.  Then  they  parted,  and 
she  made  her  cloak  a  wing  as  she  flew  away  and  it  flut- 
tered behind  her ;  while  he  faced  the  morning,  picked  up 
his  gun,  rubbed  the  dew  off  it,  and  stood  and  watched  the 
precious  one  disappear. 

Presently  the  birds  ceased  their  song  for  a  season  and 
began  the  business  of  breakfast  at  unnumbered  nests. 
The  homes  in  the  wood  appealed  to  Timothy  with  a 
force  unfelt  until  now.  He  speculated  upon  the  loves 
and  courtships  of  the  furred  and  feathered  things.  It  was 
significant  that  the  idea  of  love  and  courtship  should 
enter  into  his  mind,  for  until  that  time  he  had  scofifed  at 
the  words  and  held  them  but  a  human  euphuism  for  a 
natural  trick.  To  exalt  love  and  ennoble  it  and  idealise 
it,  had  always  seemed  to  the  man  irrational  and  stupid. 
Now  his  heart  was  seething,  and  he  moved  a  lover  amid 
countless  other  lovers.  Soft  rain  fell  and  increased,  so 
that  the  diaphanous  glory  of  the  woodland  dripped  with 
grey  water,  and  little  rills  ran  down  the  trunks  of  the 
trees.     It   was   warm   and  the  east  grew   brighter.     A 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  85 

cuckoo  called  near  Timothy,  and  some  birds  hovered 
round  the  keeper  and  cried  angrily  because  he  stopped 
a  moment  near  their  nests.  Now  indeed  the  feathered 
things  were  not  able  to  fly  away  before  him  with  indiffer- 
ence, for  they  had  given  hostages  to  fortune  and  were 
called  to  suffer  anxieties  for  them.  They  screamed  and 
whistled  uneasily  about  the  secret  places  of  their  nur- 
series; they  cried  from  the  bough,  fluttered  in  the  un- 
derwood, or  circled  aloft  about  the  centre  of  interest  — 
here  hidden  in  a  high  pine  or  low  thicket,  here,  under  a 
veil  of  ivy,  or  on  the  open  ground  of  the  marsh. 

"  Their  care  is  a  fine  thing ! "  thought  the  man,  "  and 
now  I  understand  it,  and  'tis  a  natural  and  fit  and  right 
trouble  to  come  to  every  male  creature  in  his  turn.  And 
now  I,  that  shunned  it  and  thought  it  folly  to  make  life 
more  difficult  than  a  man  need  —  I,  that  reckoned  a  wife 
and  family  was  a  fool's  trick  and  beneath  the  wisdom  of 
the  wise  —  here  am  I  hungry  for  them  —  hungry  for 
them ! " 

He  passed  through  the  sleeping  places  of  the  woods  to 
his  home,  and  behind  his  back  the  birds  took  comfort 
again,  sang  to  their  sitting  mates  or  fed  their  unfledged 
young. 

Presently  the  rain  ceased,  and,  before  six  o'clock,  the 
sun  sent  a  flood  of  liquid  gold  through  the  drenched  for- 
est ;  the  trees  cast  down  their  shadows  upon  the  glittering 
earth  and  seemed  to  awake  and  stretch  their  wet  boughs 
and  drop  nightly  cloaks  around  their  feet.  The  passion 
of  life  was  in  the  air,  the  freshness  and  savour  of  young 
spring  made  an  incense  that  stole  to  the  deepest,  darkest 
haunts  of  the  woodland.  A  flame  leapt  through  every 
glade ;  happiness  rang  out  from  every  bough ;  fresh  beauty 
was  born  with  each  trembling  leaf  and  uncurling  petal. 
It  was  as  though  the  womb  of  the  morning  had  brought 
forth  a  new  fire-born,  dew-born  Dionysus,  and  the  earth 
went  mad  for  joy.  The  forest  world  throbbed  and  glit- 
tered, danced  and  sang  in  dithyrambic  measures,  while 
all  incarnate  things  joined  together  —  a  harmony  and 
glory  of  glad  re-birth. 


CHAPTER  XI 

Among  the  ancient  tenement  farms  that  He  upon  Dart- 
moor occurs  Dury,  beside  the  eastern  arm  of  Dart.  Here 
dwelt  John  Redstone  and  his  grandfather,  and  the 
younger  might  still  say  that  he  owned  Dury,  though  his 
tenure  grew  precarious.  The  place  had  come  to  his 
father  through  an  uncle,  and  from  his  father  it  passed 
to  him ;  but  now  John  Redstone,  the  elder,  was  gone,  and 
death  having  played  extended  havoc  with  the  clan,  there 
remained  few  near  relations  to  the  surviving  owner,  save 
his  grandfather  and  his  sister.  The  latter  —  one  Mercy 
French  —  lived  with  her  husband  and  two  children  at 
Postbridge,  nigh  Dury;  while  old  Jacob  Redstone  dwelt 
with  his  grandson  at  the  little  farm.  He  had  lived  there 
during  the  latter  part  of  his  son's  life  also,  and  when 
John's  father  died,  Jacob  held  on  and  worked  the  prop- 
erty for  his  grandson.  But  now  the  young  man  was 
home  again  for  a  doubtful  term.  His  own  work,  of 
gamekeeper  at  Yarner,  had  ceased,  and  he  found  himself 
upon  less  congenial  employment.  Moreover,  his  days 
were  darkened  on  more  sides  than  one.  He  had  suffered 
a  great  sorrow  before  leaving  Yarner,  and  now  stood  face 
to  face  with  further  trouble.  During  his  father's  life- 
time Dury  had  been  mortgaged,  and,  at  this  juncture, 
there  was  no  money  to  meet  these  demands.  Lot  Snow, 
who  had  suffered  sharply  at  the  dead  owner's  hands,  was 
now  about  to  possess  the  farm,  and  only  a  year  remained 
to  his  present  creditor,  for  Redstone  found  himself  power- 
less to  pay  his  debts. 

With  mingled  feelings  the  young  man  had  left  Yarner. 
He  might  have  remained  at  cost  of  a  little  pleading,  for 
his  master  liked  him  well,  admired  his  nature  and  de- 
plored his  departure.     Probably  some  expression  of  re- 

86 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  87 

gret  for  carelessness  and  a  request  to  be  given  another 
chance  would  have  sufficed  to  keep  him  as  under-keeper 
at  Yarner ;  but  he  offered  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
He  v^as  fain  to  go  since  Drusilla  had  refused  him.  On 
her  the  whole  passion  of  a  passionate  man  had  centred, 
and  he  had  come  nearer  to  winning  her  than  he  knew. 
But  an  instinct  as  it  seemed  had  bidden  her  wait.  Again 
and  again  she  refused  his  entreaties,  until  at  last,  re- 
luctantly, he  took  '  no  '  for  answer,  and  faced  a  life  that 
seemed  to  him  ruined  past  restoration.  He  was  a  man 
of  extremes,  now  dejected  beyond  measure,  now  elated 
above  wisdom ;  and  when  finally  he  knew  that  Drusilla 
would  not  be  shaken  from  her  refusal,  he  lost  heart  about 
life  in  general,  neglected  his  work  and  endangered  his 
position. 

Unwillingly  Sir  Percy  Champernowne  let  him  go ;  but 
Redstone  was  not  sorry  to  take  his  trouble  further  from 
the  girl  who  had  caused  it.  He  departed  to  his  little  farm 
and  worked  there;  yet  fitfully  and  without  heart  he  la- 
boured, because  life  was  grey  and  hopeless  in  his  eyes. 
He  felt  that  he  had  nothing  to  work  for,  and  indeed  the 
farm  itself  was  destined  soon  to  slip  from  his  posses- 
sion, unless  some  most  unexpected  accident  saved  it.  He 
cared  little  about  himself,  but  his  grandfather  had  to 
be  thought  of,  and  for  the  old  man  he  entertained  deep 
affection. 

On  a  day  in  early  spring,  grandson  and  grandfather  had 
speech  together,  and  the  elder  matured  a  plan. 

"  'Twas  all  in  vain  you  met  Lot  Snow  at  Longworthy 
and  put  right  and  reason  afore  him,  but  maybe  he  might 
give  heed  to  my  grey  hairs." 

"  And  your  new  clothes,"  said  the  younger. 

While  joy  of  life  had  received  such  hard  strokes  of 
late  in  the  case  of  John  Redstone,  he  stood  stoutly  up  to 
the  blows,  for  the  man's  temperament,  if  choleric,  was 
sanguine.  His  vitality  was  not  dashed  though  anxiety 
had  cooled  his  spirit;  an  unconquerable  nature  belonged 
to  him  as  a  precious  heritage,  and  the  chastening  hand 
of  chance  was  powerless  to  alter  that.     He  rose  from  the 


88  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

stroke  and,  after  some  futile  rage  against  Mr.  Snow 
had  spent  itself,  he  returned  by  gradual  stages  to  his 
cheerful  self.  Now  hope,  ever  ready  to  home  at  his  heart, 
came  to  him.  He  set  store  upon  his  grandfather's  wis- 
dom, and  said  so. 

"  You've  never  done  much  good  for  yourself  in  the 
world,  gaffer,  but  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  you  didn't, 
for  a  cleverer  old  man  never  went  on  two  legs,  I'm  sure. 
Yes,  you  go  to  him  and  see  what  you  can  do.  I  won't 
trust  myself  to  face  him  again.  Butter  wouldn't  have 
melted  in  my  mouth  last  time  I  saw  the  swine,  but  my 
fingers  was  itching  to  be  on  his  fat  throat  all  the  while." 

"  You  was  very  good,  I  know,  and  deserved  more  than 
you  got,"  said  Jacob.  "  But  patience  ban't  a  rich  man's 
virtue,  and  he's  the  sort  that  can't  forgive,  like  they  ele- 
phants at  the  beast  show.  They'll  remember  a  thing  for 
years,  and  let  it  gather  interest  against  the  doer  and  pay 
it  back  in  full,  when  the  chance  comes.  And  that's  what 
Lot  Snow  be  going  to  do,  if  we  can't  soften  him.  Your 
father  was  a  smart  man,  and  reckoned  a  knave  to  be  fair 
game.  He  scored  off  Snow  and  hit  him  pretty  hard. 
'Tis  an  old  story  now,  but  not  old  to  the  sufferer.  And 
then  your  father  was  going  to  die  laughing  at  the  man, 
but  he  didn't,  because  he'd  forgot  you,  and  Snow  took  care 
to  remind  him.  However,  I'll  do  what  I  can,  for,  be  it  as 
'twill,  he  haven't  no  quarrel  with  me.  I  never  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  him." 

Old  Jacob  Redstone  presented  a  pleasant  spectacle.  He 
was  a  very  small  man,  with  a  face  all  wrinkled  into  one 
laugh.  Every  line  of  a  thousand  lines  contributed  to  the 
same  end.  Even  seen  with  his  eyes  shut  a  chance  be- 
holder smiled  to  mark  so  much  happiness  stamped  as  a  fix- 
ture on  a  fellow  countenance ;  but  when  he  opened  them, 
they  were  little,  bright,  black  suns,  and  every  converging 
furrow  on  brow  and  temple  contributed  to  their  merri- 
ment. It  seemed  that  the  man  had  weathered  seventy 
years  on  Dartmoor  to  find  life  the  rarest  jest  offered  to 
mortal.  Teeth  he  had  none,  but  his  mouth  followed  the 
skull  lines  and  grinned  a  genial  smile.     He  wore  a  blue 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  89 

shirt,  black  leggings,  and  corduroy  trousers.  His  head 
was  bald,  save  where  a  half  ring  of  hair  —  thin,  white, 
and  shining  —  hung  round  his  nape,  like  a  halo  that  had 
slipped  down  and  been  caught  behind  his  big  ears. 

The  younger  man  was  five-and-twenty,  and  of  a  ruddy 
countenance.  His  face  and  hands  were  freckled,  his  hair 
was  red,  bright,  and  curly.  He  possessed  activity,  resolu- 
tion, and  great  strength.  Trouble  had  worn  him  rather 
thin  of  late,  but  he  was  not  built  to  sink  under  any  single 
tribulation.  He  could  ill  endure  to  wait  for  a  threatened 
blow,  and  his  impetuous  nature  rebelled  against  restraint. 
In  the  matter  of  his  crossed  love  he  was  bound  to  endure 
perforce,  and  longed  very  heartily  for  time  to  fly,  that  the 
pain  of  disappointment  might  grow  fainter ;  but  with  re- 
spect to  the  mortgage  and  the  loss  of  his  farm,  he  had 
stood  all  that  his  nature  could  stand,  and  intended  soon  to 
cut  that  loss.  He  would  have  left  the  country  had  it  not 
been  for  his  grandfather,  but  he  knew  that  to  transplant 
the  old  man  from  Dartmoor  would  be  a  harsh  measure, 
and  he  cared  not  to  leave  him.  A  strange  affection  ob- 
tained between  them,  and  John  had  always  liked  the  laugh- 
ter-loving ancient  better  than  his  own  cynical  and  satur- 
nine parent. 

Now  came  the  day  when  Jacob  Redstone  prepared  to 
visit  Lot  Snow.  By  appointment  he  went,  and  his  grand- 
son chaffed  him  as  they  ate  their  midday  meal  before  the 
start. 

Jacob  wore  his  black,  and  had  put  on  a  red  tie  and  a 
white  shirt.  The  cuffs  were  frayed  but  clean ;  his  collar, 
which  cut  his  shrivelled  throat  somewhat  and  caused  him 
discomfort,  was  also  very  white. 

"  I'm  sure  you'd  soften  a  stone  in  them  clothes,"  said 
John,  regarding  the  old  man  with  affection ;  and  Jacob 
nodded,  for  his  mouth  was  full.  He  chewed  upon  tooth- 
less gums,  and  feeding  was  a  slow  and  laborious  business 
with  him. 

"  I  shall  talk  about  the  future,  and  offer  the  man  a  fair 
added  bit  of  interest  for  waiting  a  bit  longer.  Things  be 
looking  up,  and  there's  brave  promise  this  year.     Hay's 


90  THE  FOREST  OxN  THE  HILL 

like  to  be  a  masterpiece,  and  the  mangel  will  sure  to  make 
a  terrible  fine  crop.  'Tis  always  a  strong  point  at  Dnry 
—  our  swedes  and  mangels.  And  now  you  be  settled  on 
the  place  and  putting  in  all  your  time,  who  knows  what 
we  can't  do  ?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  'tis  just  because  I'm  my  father's  son  that  he 
won't  budge.  But  tell  him  I'm  patient  as  a  dog,  and  will 
meet  him  any  way  in  my  power  if  he'll  only  give  me  a 
chance  to  keep  my  own.     Shall  you  visit  anybody  else  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  Seth  Campion  —  the  deaf  'un.  He's  a 
very  nice  man,  when  you  can  get  through  his  ear-hole,  and 
an  old  friend  of  mine.  Then  there's  Miss  Widger  —  they 
was  saying  that  her  tuber  do  grow  upon  her  and  will  soon 
eat  her  up.  A  cruel  evil,  and  who  shall  blame  her  for 
taking  a  dark  view  of  life?  She  was  quite  a  cheerful 
woman  in  her  youth.  I'd  like  for  to  see  her  once  more, 
and  shall  call  at  the  cottage  above  Yarner  on  my  way 
home." 

John  sighed. 

"  You'll  see  Drusilla,  too,  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  No  matter  for  her.  Where  there's  life  there's  hope. 
She'll  have  to  look  through  a  long  telescope  afore  she'll 
find  a  better  chap  than  you." 

"  She  has  found  one.  I  met  Amos  Kingdon  —  head 
keeper  to  Yarner  —  at '  The  Coach  and  Horses  '  in  Ilsing- 
ton  a  bit  ago,  and  he'd  seen  her  and  the  new  keeper  —  the 
nephew  of  that  God-damned  Lot  Snow  —  together  in  the 
wood  more'n  once.  And  Amos  would  be  glad  if  I  was  to 
go  back  to-morrow.  He  don't  like  this  here  Timothy 
Snow.  He's  too  clever  for  anything,  and  full  of  new- 
fangled ideas,  and  tells  everybody  their  business.  I 
reckon  Drusilla  will  be  properly  dazzled,  and,  of  course, 
he's  bound  to  care  for  her ;  so  that's  as  good  as  done." 

"  You  run  on  so !  Why,  that  man  was  brought  in  over 
your  head  for  a  reason.  I  heard  all  about  it.  He's  to 
wed  Leaman's  darter  —  with  a  ring  as  will  go  round  Lea- 
man's  place  and  Lot's  two  farms  in  the  valley.  'Tis  all 
planned  and  plotted,  and  the  young  fellow  will  do  as  he's 
told,  you  may  be  sure." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  91 

"  He  just  won't,"  declared  John  Redstone.  "  He's  not 
a  tame  rabbit,  whatever  else  he  may  be.  You  mark  my 
words,  if  they've  set  him  at  Audrey  Leaman,  he'll  bolt 
and  go  for  Drusilla.  And  who  wouldn't  ?  Damn  it !  I 
wish  I  could  have  got  her  to  see  sense." 

"  You'm  too  soft,  Jacky  —  like  all  Redstones,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  When  I  went  courting  your  grandmother 
—  as  stood  five  inches  taller  than  me,  but  would  sit  in 
my  lap  for  all  that,  bless  her  body  —  when  I  went  court- 
ing her,  she  said  to  me,  '  There's  nought  of  the  stone 
about  you  but  your  name,  Jacob.'  A  clever  thing  to 
say,  but  she  was  cruel  clever  —  cleverer  far  than  women 
be  now^adays,  for  all  their  schooling.  A  great  place  for 
clever  women  Okehampton  was  —  where  she  came  from. 
She  taught  me  a  lot  about  life." 

Presently  Mr.  Redstone  finished  his  dinner  and  drove 
away  in  a  pony  trap. 

"  I  shall  be  back  along  after  dark,"  he  said,  "  in  time 
for  supper,  if  not  sooner." 


CHAPTER  XII 

It  was  upon  the  day  following  Drusilla's  nocturnal  troth 
that  old  Jacob  Redstone  paid  his  visit  to  Ilsington  and 
spent  a  fruitless  hour  with  Lot  Snow.  He  pleaded  for 
his  grandson,  explained  how  unreasonable  and  unjust  the 
contemplated  action  must  be  considered,  and  offered  to 
meet  Mr.  Snow  in  any  way  possible,  or  take  any  course 
calculated  to  save  Dury  Farm  to  John.  But  he  failed 
of  his  purpose. 

"  Foreclose  I  do  at  the  appointed  hour,  Mr.  Redstone. 
And  if  you  knew  how  many  reasons  I've  got  for  doing 
it,  you  might  have  saved  your  wind  and  your  Sunday 
clothes  and  your  horse's  shoes.  Firstly,  there's  the 
grudge  I  bear  your  stock,  and  if  I  don't  get  level  with 
your  dead  son,  I  break  my  oath.  Because,  when  he  died 
and  escaped  me,  I  felt  rather  acid  about  it,  and  worried, 
and  had  an  attack  of  gout  in  both  feet  —  all  of  which 
was  very  bad  for  me.  But  that's  come  right,  and  they 
laugh  longest  who  laugh  last ;  and  I  hope  and  trust,  if 
your  son's  virtues  ever  served  him  to  get  to  heaven,  he 
may  know  what  I'm  doing  now  and  feel  a  thorn  in  his 
bed  of  roses.  'Tis  him  I'm  smiting  in  this  matter  — 
giving  as  good  as  I  got  —  and  better  —  because  Dury's 
worth  more  this  year  than  ever  it  was." 

"  My  grandson's  work." 

"  Yes  —  that's  how  Providence  balances  up  things. 
You  understand  I've  no  quarrel  with  John.  But  if  a 
mouse  gets  under  the  wheel  of  the  running  cart,  it 
squashes.  He's  got  to  go.  And  more  than  that,  I  want 
Dury  next  year  for  a  very  good  purpose.  I  have  a 
private  need  for  it,  and  must  have  it." 

Jacob  argued  and  strove  with  all  his  wits  to  turn  the 
other,  but  he  wasted  his  time.     Mr.  Snow  made  it  abun- 

92 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  93 

dantly  clear  that  he  foreclosed  on  Dury  as  soon  as  the 
law  allowed  him  to  do  so.  A  considerable  sum  had  been 
advanced,  and  it  was  far  beyond  the  present  power  of 
the  Redstones  to  find  the  principal  of  their  obligation. 

"  It's  a  matter  of  business,"  summed  up  Lot,  "  and  we 
needn't  have  any  silly  noise  and  fuss  and  stage  playing 
about  it.  I'm  doing  nothing  improper,  and  I've  waited 
for  my  money  a  very  long  while.  The  interest's  all  be- 
hind, and  it's  nothing  to  me  that  you  say  you  can  pay  it 
all  off  in  six  year  more,  even  if  that's  true.  I  want  the 
farm  for  my  own  purposes,  and  so  enough  said." 

Old  Redstone  left  him  presently,  and  did  not  refuse  the 
drop  of  spirits  that  Lot  offered  upon  their  parting.  Then 
he  called  at  the  inn  to  meet  Seth  Campion,  by  appoint- 
ment, and  spent  a  little  while  there  before  proceeding 
on  his  way. 

One  Ned  Blackaller  kept  "  The  Coach  and  Horses," 
and  prided  himself  on  such  a  memory  that  he  never 
forgot  a  visitor,  and  remembered  even  the  chance  traveller 
when  he  returned  after  absence  of  years.  Mr.  Redstone 
was  known  at  the  village,  and  Ned,  a  tall,  thin,  and  dark 
man,  shook  hands  and  greeted  the  veteran  with  friend- 
ship. 

"  Well  now !  'tis  a  longf ul  time  since  you  was  this 
way,  my  old  dear.  But  going  pretty  clever,  by  the  look 
of  it?" 

"  Ess  fay,  Ned !  I'm  at  the  stage  of  life  when  nought 
much  happens  to  a  man.  I've  weathered  the  worst,  and 
be  got  to  a  state  that  only  gives  to  time.  Nothing  ever 
hurts  me  or  takes  hold  upon  me.  I  shall  last  up  home 
to  the  nineties  now,  and  then  I  shall  get  the  dry  rot  in 
me  and  begin  to  crumble.  'Tis  always  so  with  my  race. 
We  go  like  elm  trees  —  nought  to  show  outside  that  the 
crash  be  coming,  till  we'm  down.  And  then  everybody's 
terrible  surprised." 

Mr.  Blackaller  nodded. 

"  'Tis  a  common  thing.  Time  may  forget  you,  but 
death  don't.  Here's  Seth  Campion ;  he's  back  from 
Yarner  working  for  Mr.  Leaman  again  now,  and  that 


94  THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL 

means  he  haven't  got  many  spare  minutes  to  talk  to 
you." 

Campion  appeared,  and  his  owl  eyes  brightened  at 
sight  of  Mr.  Redstone.  They  shook  hands,  and  the  elder 
marked  a  patch  of  plaster  covering  a  sore  on  the  other's 
neck. 

"  Doctor  cut  a  lump  of  flesh  out  of  me,"  said  Seth 
indifferently.  "  It  had  to  be  done,  for  'twas  poisoning 
my  frame,  so  he  said.  A  very  understanding  man.  I 
bled  a  bucket  after,  and  he  bade  me  drink  so  much  black 
porter  as  I  could  carry  in  comfort.  Which  I  did  do. 
And,  by  the  same  token,  I'll  have  a  pint  now,  Ned." 

"  Along  with  me  you'll  have  it,"  declared  Mr.  Red- 
stone. "And  how  be  your  hearing,  Seth?  Do  it  mend 
or  grow  dimmer  ?  " 

He  shouted  to  be  heard,  and  the  effort  made  him  choke. 
Thereupon  he  laughed,  and  the  tears  ran  from  his  eyes ; 
he  grew  very  red,  and  Blackaller  patted  him  on  the 
back. 

"  My  hearing  ?  'Tis  very  near  a  thing  of  the  past, 
Jacob.  I'll  soon  be  dead  to  the  world.  'Tis  a  very  great 
hardship  for  a  labouring  man.  But  it  don't  stand  be- 
tween me  and  ploughing." 

"  You  was  always  very  clever  at  that,  Seth." 

Campion  nodded. 

"  Yes,  I  believe,"  he  said.  "  I'm  on  Farmer  Leaman's 
four-acre  meadow  now,  and  if  you  want  to  have  a  tell 
with  me,  you'll  have  to  come  and  walk  a  bit  beside  the 
plough.     I  can't  stop." 

They  went  out  together  presently,  and  Redstone  left 
his  horse  and  trap  at  the  inn.  Then  he  followed  the 
labourer  to  a  great  field  of  grass  on  which  piles  of  farm- 
yard stuff  were  disposed  in  long  and  regular  lines  curving 
across  the  meadow.  Part  of  this  manure  was  scattered 
over  the  land,  and  part  had  been  already  ploughed  into 
it.  The  ground  was  being  broken  for  roots.  Mr.  Cam- 
pion trod  laboriously  after  the  team,  and  his  eyes  imaged 
nothing  but  the  tails  of  two  cart  mares  in  front  of  him. 
Black  and  roan  they  were,  and  with  bent  heads  they  crept 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  95 

along  the  furrow  slowly.  The  double  ploughshare  cut 
each  way,  and  at  the  end  of  every  furrow  Seth  turned 
over  his  handles,  pulled  round  his  horses,  and  went  for- 
ward again.  The  ploughed  land  shaded  off  from  the 
last,  dark,  wet,  chamfered  ridge  of  earth  to  where  earlier 
work,  done  at  dawn,  was  already  drying  and  fading 
under  the  breath  of  the  east  wind. 

"  A  good  job,  and  all  going  very  suent !  "  shouted  old 
Redstone  to  the  ploughman ;  and  Campion  nodded  at 
the  compliment  and  said : 

"  Yes,  I  believe." 

He  heard  of  the  interview  with  Lot  Snow,  and  ex- 
hibited no  surprise  at  the  other's  failure. 

"  You  don't  know  so  much  as  me, "  he  said,  "  else 
you'd  have  thought  twice  afore  you  bearded  the  man. 
Him  and  my  master  have  a  plot  afoot  to  join  their  places, 
and  Mr.  Leaman's  darter.  Miss  Audrey,  is  to  wed  t'other's 
nephew,  the  keeper  —  him  as  got  your  grandson's  place 
at  Yarner.  'Tis  all  planned  out,  as  only  such  clever 
men  could  plan  it,  and  no  doubt,  in  fulness  of  time, 
Timothy  Snow  will  offer  for  the  girl  and  she'll  take  him. 
And  then  young  Snow  have  got  to  learn  his  business  and 
be  a  farmer;  and  that's  why  for  the  old  man  wants 
Dury  —  for  his  nephew  to  begin  in  a  small  way  afore 
he  comes  to  the  big  place." 

Jacob  nodded. 

"  What  a  one  you  are  for  putting  two  and  two  to- 
gether, Seth !  " 

"  Yes,  I  believe.  And  it  have  got  to  come  about,  be- 
cause Leaman  ban't  the  sort  to  take  '  no '  for  an  answer, 
no  more  ban't  Snow." 

"  All  clear  as  daylight.  And  what  about  this  here 
young  chap  as  have  got  my  boy's  place  ?  " 

"  Nobody  can  say  nothing  against  him.  A  old  head 
on  young  shoulders,  in  my  opinion.  Won't  stand  no 
nonsense  and  won't  be  led.  But  alive  to  his  own  welfare, 
no  doubt,  and  isn't  going  to  say  *  no '  to  a  purty  wife  and 
a  good  promise  of  riches." 

"  What  luck  some  men  do  have,  Seth  —  eh  ?     To  think 


96  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

of  all  that  offered  to  a  young  youth.     But  maybe  he'll 
rise  to  it  and  prove  himself  worthy." 

"  A  very  strong  man,  and  rash  in  his  opinions  here 
and  there.  Not  that  I've  any  quarrel  with  him.  I  was 
working  up  there  a  bit  ago  and  had  some  speech  with 
him.  Got  a  great  trust  in  himself  and  a  great  distrust 
of  Providence." 

"  'Tis  a  way  with  the  young.  You  have  to  rise  up  to 
your  years  —  or  even  mine,  Seth  Campion,  afore  you 
begin  to  find  'tis  t'other  way  round,  and  Providence 
can  see  further  into  the  future  than  man's  wits." 

"  So  Pve  told  him ;  but  he  says  we  make  our  own 
Providence,  and  that's  why  the  witty  men  get  on  in  the 
world  and  the  fools  hang  fire.  No  doubt  there's  some- 
thing in  that.  And  we  solid  men,  that  give  Providence 
no  trouble  —  we  deserve  our  regular  money  and  health 
and  strength." 

"  Every  word  true !  A  man  like  you,  Seth,  be  com- 
plete in  yourself.  You  never  married ;  you  never  kicked 
over  the  traces ;  you  never  got  into  no  bother  with  the 
girls,  and  never  drank,  nor  played  pitch  and  toss,  nor 
betted  nor  nothing.  A  very  complete  man  in  a  word, 
and  might  have  risen  to  higher  things  but  for  your  great 
affliction." 

"  Yes,  I  believe.  But  you'll  never  hear  me  grumble. 
Em  like  you  there :  never  known  to  want  more  than  Em 
worth,  or  to  say  that  Em  working  for  less  than  Em 
worth.  Supply  and  demand  be  a  subject  that  you  can't 
get  round ;  and  I've  the  largeness  of  mind  to  see  that  I 
ban't  worth  more  than  I  fetch." 

"  The  height  of  wisdom  in  you !  "  declared  Mr.  Red- 
stone, "  and  a  terrible  rare  state  for  the  human  mind 
to  reach.  Eve  never  heard  any  man  under  fifty-five  say 
his  wages  was  enough,  or  near  enough.  They  think  it 
would  be  a  confession  of  weakness  to  admit  it ;  they 
fear,  if  they  said  they  was  content,  their  masters  would 
take  care  they  should  soon  be  discontented  again.  Them 
as  tell  you  they're  getting  enough  are  pretty  dead  sure  to 
be  getting  too  much,  and  so  men  in  general  keeps  their 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  97 

mouths  shut  on  the  subject  of  wages,  except  to  grumble 
at  'em.  But,  of  course,  as  a  bachelor  you  don't  want 
what  a  married  man  with  a  lot  of  childer  must  have." 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  I  don't  go  along  with  you  there,  Jacob.  "Why  for 
should  the  lucky  ones  with  wives  and  childer  have  more 
than  such  as  me?  Along  of  my  affliction  and  small 
money  I  could  never  get  a  well-favoured  woman  to  look 
at  me,  though  I  offered  in  four  cases  while  I  was  be- 
tween the  age  of  thirty  and  forty-two.  And  such  an  eye 
I  had  for  a  bowerly  lass  that  I  never  could  tinker  up  to 
a  plain  one.  So  I  went  without,  and  missed  all  the 
blessing  and  comfort  of  a  woman  in  the  house,  and  all 
the  learning  we  get  from  them,  and  all  the  pride  of 
handing  on  my  own  pattern  to  a  man-child.  You  see, 
I'm  a  thinking  creature  and  turn  these  things  over  in 
my  mind.  And  when  all's  said,  I  deserve  my  savings 
just  as  much  as  any  married  man  and  the  father  of  ten, 
find  him  where  you  will." 

"  I've  nothing  to  say  against  that,  Seth,  and  you'll 
keep  out  of  the  workhouse  at  the  end  and  be  a  credit 
to  us  all.  And  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  to  Dury  afore 
long  to  have  a  bite  and  sup  and  a  walk  round.  You 
won't  know  the  place,  for  'tis  a  matter  of  years  since  you 
was  up  over." 

"  I'll  come,"  declared  Mr.  Campion.  "  I'll  come  of  a 
bank  holiday  presently,  or  else  of  a  Sunday.  How  long 
do  you  count  to  be  there  ?  " 

"  Nine  months." 

"  And  what'll  you  do  after?  " 

"  Us  haven't  turned  it  over  yet.  But  my  boy  be  very 
like  to  go  back  to  gamekeeper's  work." 

"  And  if  I  know  anything,  he'd  be  very  welcome  again 
at  Yarner.  Amos  Kingdon  likes  him  a  lot  better  than 
he  likes  Timothy  Snow.  In  fact  he've  got  no  use  for 
Snow,  and  think's  he's  a  bit  too  full  of  his  own  clever- 
ness. And  Sir  Percy  did  use  to  think  well  of  your 
grandson,  too.  'Twas  only  along  of  a  few  faults  and 
wishing  to  oblige  Lot  Snow  that  he  let  Redstone  go.  And 
7 


98  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

if  John  had  but  stood  out  and  asked  to  stop.  Sir  Percy 
would  have  caved  in  and  let  him  stop." 

"  Too  proud  for  that,  Seth,  He's  a  man  as  sweet  as 
honey  sometimes,  and  as  gentle  and  as  kindly  as  a  nice 
child  —  my  grandson  is.  But  he's  got  a  terrible  sharp 
sense  of  justice,  and  if  he  thinks  the  law's  being  strained, 
or  a  man  be  working  against  him  outside  right  and 
reason  and  honesty,  then  he  gets  wicked  in  a  minute." 

They  parted  presently,  and  Campion  renewed  his  prom- 
ise to  visit  Dury,  while  Mr.  Redstone,  returning  to  Ilsing- 
ton,  harnessed  his  horse  and  set  off  to  visit  Miss  Widger, 
at  her  home  above  Yarner.  He  did  not  reach  the  cot- 
tage, however,  for  Jenny  Widger  met  him  at  the  moor- 
edge  on  her  way  into  the  village. 

"  There  now ! "  he  said,  "  if  I  wasn't  on  my  road  to 
you !     Coming  for  a  bit  of  a  tell  and  a  cup  of  tea  I  was." 

"  And  no  man  would  have  been  welcomer  at  another 
time,"  she  answered,  "  but  the  days  for  telling  and  tea- 
drinking  be  long  since  over  in  my  poor  life.  I  be  eaten 
up  by  inches  along  of  my  canker  —  a  living  death,  you 
might  say  —  and  as  if  that  wasn't  enough,  I've  just  heard 
of  a  thing  as  have  made  my  head  spin  like  a  chimney- 
cowl.     In  a  word,  my  niece  be  tokened." 

"That  nice  girl  as  Johnny  cared  about?  Well,  I'm 
properly  sorry  for  his  sake  as  she  couldn't  take  him,  for 
they'd  have  made  a  very  happy  pair,  so  far  as  we  can 
judge  of  such  things.  But  we  can't  plan  these  affairs. 
And  who  be  the  man?  Just  the  opposite  of  my  boy,  no 
doubt." 

"  'Tis  not  a  matter  to  take  so  calm,"  declared  Jenny 
Widger.  "  'Tis  a  very  far-reaching,  tragical  thing,  and 
for  my  part  I'm  a  lot  put  about  over  it." 

"Why  for?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Because  it  means  trouble.  Never  mind  about  that. 
Ban't  our  business,  and  presently  I  be  going  to  try  and 
find  my  own  duty  in  the  matter.  It  shan't  be  said  as  I 
had  any  hand  in  it.  And  whether  or  no,  Drusilla  didn't 
ought  to  think  of  marrying  so  long  as  I  be  alive.  I 
shan't  be  above  ground  much  longer,  and  'tis  a  very  in- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  99 

decent  thing,  in  my  opinion,  as  she  could  lend  her  ear 
to  a  man,  with  my  sufferings  always  at  her  door." 

"  You  be  looking  fairly  game,"  declared  Mr.  Red- 
stone, but  the  woman  denied  it. 

"  'Tis  your  failing  sight,"  she  said.  "  And  I  see  you 
be  bent  pretty  well  two-double  since  I  met  you  last. 
They'll  never  straighten  your  corpse ;  and  as  for  me,  I 
can't  let  down  my  food,  and  I  have  the  awfulest  dreams 
of  a  night  that  ever  happened.  God  knows  why  they'm 
sent,  and  if  'twasn't  His  work,  you'd  say  'twas  indecent 
and  cruel  improper  that  an  old  maiden  woman  should 
have  'em,  for  I  always  get  the  same  frightful  nightmare 
four  nights  out  of  five ;  and  'tis  that  an  evil  man  be  run- 
ning away  with  me  in  his  arms.  I  wake  up  yowling 
sometimes,  and  feel  I  could  scratch  my  eyes  out  for 
shame." 

"  You  did  ought  to  tell  the  doctor  about  it." 

"  The  doctor!  Mischief  take  the  doctor!  I'm  sick  of 
the  doctor  —  all  talk  and  long  words  that  he  uses  to  hide 
his  own  silliness.  I  wouldn't  tell  him  about  it  —  a 
young  thing  like  him.  I've  got  my  self-respect,  and  the 
sound  side  of  my  face  blushes  yet,  I  can  tell  you." 

She  talked  without  ceasing  for  ten  minutes,  then  re- 
membered her  errand  and  prepared  to  leave  him.  She 
spoke  of  nothing  but  her  sufferings,  and  did  not  enquire 
concerning  Mr.  Redstone's  fortunes  or  reveal  the  least 
interest  in  them.  He  had  not  seen  her  for  more  than 
a  year,  and  observed  how  greatly  she  was  changed  in 
body  and  mind. 

"  The  dismal  sight  of  a  dying  creature  who  can't  take 
it  quiet,  but  be  running  about  shrieking  like  a  stuck 
pig,"  he  told  his  grandson  when  he  returned  home  at 
nightfall.  "  In  a  word,  John,  I've  not  enjoyed  myself 
very  much  to-day,  and  I  ban't  the  bringer  of  good  news 
but  quite  the  contrary.  Lot  Snow  is  a  man  cast  in  a  very 
harsh  pattern,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  there's  nothing  gained 
by  my  visit.  I've  done  my  bestest,  but  I  might  so  soon 
have  asked  the  river  to  spare  the  drowning  lamb,  as 
that  man  to  harken  and  give  us  the  chance  to  free  Dury. 
He's  got  his  knife  in  and  he's  going  to  drive  it  home." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Timothy  Snow  and  Drnsilla  Whyddon  sat  together  on 
a  mound  of  rocks  lifted  high  above  a  valley.  It  was 
Sunday,  and  they  were  together  upon  the  Moor.  Beneath 
them  leagues  of  dead  fern  spread  a  delicate  roseal  grey 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  waste,  and  scattered  granite  broke 
it,  where  boulders  and  rock  masses  were  piled  and  flung 
in  wild  confusion.  The  stone  shone  blue  by  contrast 
with  the  withered  bracken,  and  the  quality  of  the  air 
made  it  lustrous  although  the  day  was  dull.  Little  cob- 
web-coloured thorns  dotted  the  sloping  hillside,  and  in 
their  midst  was  the  mark  of  vanished  man,  where  sunken 
stones  drew  a  circle  on  the  heath.  All  distances  were 
dimmed  by  the  north  wind ;  Cosdon's  remote  arch  bent 
like  a  cloud  on  the  horizon,  and  huge  Hameldon  was 
also  sunk  in  haze,  where  it  towered  to  the  west. 

A  stream  ran  in  the  valley  bottom,  and  beyond  it  earth 
climbed  by  wooded  coombs  upward  to  grassy  hills,  where 
the  fires  of  the  greater  gorse  were  kindling. 

"  I  always  think  the  Moor  is  lonesome  and  empty  after 
Yarner,"  said  Timothy's  betrothed.  "  There  things  seem 
close  to  you  and  friendly ;  up  here  all  is  cold  and  strange 
and  far  off." 

"  Good  for  a  change,"  he  answered.  "  I  like  Dart- 
moor. It  braces  up  your  nerves.  I  feel  Yarner  stuffy 
and  soft  sometimes.  Then  there's  nothing  like  a  good 
stinging  from  the  wind  on  the  tors.  In  the  woods  you 
can't  get  away  from  us  humans  —  at  least  I  feel  it  so, 
and  the  better  the  woodman's  and  keeper's  work,  the 
more  you  see  of  it ;  but  up  here,  save  for  one  thing, 
there's  not  a  glimpse  of  humans  between  us  and  the  edge 
of  the  hills  yonder." 

"  I  see  no  sign  but  the  farmhouse  roof  in  the  trees." 

"  No  —  not  that.     I  didn't  mark  that.     I'll  be  jealous 

100 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  loi 

of  your  eyes  presently,  Dnisilla.  Tis  the  round  ring 
down  there  —  stones  the  '  old  men  '  set  up.  That's  what 
1  was  looking  at.  They're  held  to  be  very  interesting  — 
those  old  stones  —  and  there  was  a  lot  more  of  'em  about 
in  the  past ;  but  the  folk  up  here  have  taken  most  of  the 
best  for  their  own  uses." 

"  We're  quits,  Timothy,"  she  said,  "  for  I  hadn't  seen 
it.  So  your  eyes  are  as  quick  as  mine.  Indeed,  they 
are  many  times  quicker." 

She  had  reclined  at  his  feet  with  her  back  against  his 
knees,  and  now  she  rose  and  knelt  and  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

He  kissed  her,  and  was  shaken  from  his  didactic  talk 
for  a  moment  or  two,  but  the  ruling  passion  could  not 
be  balked  for  long  by  any  other.  After  a  few  endear- 
ments the  young  man  began  to  air  his  opinions  once 
more,  though  he  stroked  Drusilla's  cheek  the  while. 

"  Yes,  I'd  have  the  circle  away  from  this  great  view, 
because  I've  a  fancy  sometimes  to  turn  my  back  on  every- 
thing that  marks  man.  I  like  now  and  again  to  see  only 
the  wild  earth  untouched  by  us.  The  earth's  the  thing. 
Don't  we  go  to  it  for  all?  Why,  we  couldn't  have  the 
air  we  breathe  but  for  the  earth.  Don't  we  tire  our- 
selves out  every  day  standing  on  our  feet?  And  then 
we've  got  to  get  closer  to  it,  and  lie  on  it  with  our  whole 
bodies  to  gather  the  strength  to  go  on  living." 

"  So  'tis,"  she  agreed.  "  The  tired  man  and  the  sad 
man  and  the  stricken  man  —  all  cry  to  lie  on  it  and 
hide  their  faces  in  it." 

"  They  do ;  and  I  can  easily  fancy  things  falling  out 
so  that  a  man  might  cry  to  go  under  it  altogether  and 
make  an  end.  And  for  a  man  so  full  of  life  as  I  am 
now,  that's  a  pretty  good  thing  to  grant.  But  I've  had 
more  luck  than  ever  I  deserved." 

"  I  love  to  hear  you  say  so,  though  'tis  far  ways  from 
the  truth,"  she  declared.  "  I'm  not  good  enough  nor 
clever  enough  for  you,  and  never  shall  be  one  nor 
t'other." 

"  You've  taught  me  a  mighty  lot,  and  will  teach  me 


102  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

more,"  he  answered.  "  I  was  too  imicli  of  an  own-self 
man  before  I  fell  in  love  with  you,  Drusilla.  But  you've 
enlarged  my  mind,  and  made  me  take  more  interest  in 
other  people." 

"  Yet  you're  all  against  sympathy  and  pity  and  all 
that?" 

"  And  always  shall  be ;  but  fellowship  I  welcome.  Lm 
open  to  fellowship  with  any  honest  man,  but  there's  that 
about  me  that  chokes  men  off  fellowship.  'Tis  my  way 
of  thinking  above  them.  They  don't  understand,  and  so 
fancy  Fm  a  hard  man." 

"  You're  not  hard  really,  Tim." 

"  Yes,  according  to  the  flabby  way  most  people  think 
and  feel,  Fm  hard.  To  hate  sympathy  and  pity  is  hard. 
But  I  can't  help  it,  and  I  know  Fm  right :  I  know  the 
flabby  folk  all  end  by  getting  left  behind  and  going 
down.  For  sympathy  don't  help  you  to  keep  your  self- 
respect,  and  pity  do  help  you  to  lose  it." 

They  talked  on,  and  one  might  have  noted  imparti- 
ally how  his  larger  mind  drifted  again  and  again  to  the 
abstract,  while  the  loving  girl's  thoughts  and  speeches 
brought  him  back  to  the  actual,  with  her  arms  round 
his  neck  and  her  dark,  grey  eyes  beaming  into  his. 

They  abandoned  abstractions  presently  and  spoke  of 
their  love  and  marriage  and  the  life  after  marriage. 

The  subject  absorbed  them  for  an  hour,  then  they 
strolled  along  together  for  a  mile  or  more.  Timothy 
took  leave  of  Drusilla  presently.  He  often  saw  her  to 
her  home,  but  rarely  entered  it,  for  Miss  Widger  disliked 
him  and  his  opinions,  and  he  shrank  from  irritating  her. 

Now  the  lovers  parted  under  Hey  Tor,  and  an  event 
very  unexpected  overtook  the  man.  Drusilla  was  hardly 
out  of  sight  when  young  Snow  found  himself  accosted 
by  a  stranger.  He  puzzled  for  a  moment  to  recollect 
where  he  had  met  the  other  before,  but  could  not  re- 
member. Then  John  Redstone  introduced  himself,  and 
Timothy  called  back  to  his  mind  a  vanished  Sunday  when 
he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  Redstone  from  the  parlour 
window  of  his  uncle's  house  at  Ilsington. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  103 

"  My  name's  John  Redstone,"  explained  the  master  of 
Dury,  "  and  I  was  coming  down  to  you  in  Yarner  woods, 
because  I  very  much  wished  to  have  a  tell,  and  heard 
you  was  a  clever  sort  of  man.  Then  I  saw  you  out  'pon 
the  Moor  with  Drusilla  —  I  call  her  so  because  Tve 
knowed  her  for  years  —  long  afore  you  did,  and  she's 
very  good  friends  wdth  me,  and  no  doubt  you've  heard 
her  name  my  name.  I  Avas  second  keeper  to  Yarner 
afore  you  came  there,  and  I  can  tell  you  all  about  myself 
if  you  care  to  know  it." 

"  I've  heard  about  you." 

"If  'twas  from  Drusilla,  you  heard  truth ;  but  if  'twas 
from  Lot  Snow  you  didn't.  He's  got  his  knife  into  me 
pretty  cruel,  and  'tis  on  that  'count  I  be  come  to  see  you 
and  beg  for  the  favour  of  your  opinion." 

"  I've  heard  nothing  against  you  —  unless  'twas  from 
Amos  Kingdon,  head  keeper  at  Yarner,  and  he  thinks 
a  mighty  deal  of  you.  'Tis  only  that  you  was  a  bit 
lazy  now  and  again." 

"  Leave  that.  Man  to  man  I  want  you  to  lend  me  a 
hand  if  you  know  how,  and  there's  no  reason  against 
that  I  can  think  on.  You're  one  of  the  lucky  ones,  and 
so  might  give  a  chap  like  me  the  benefit  of  your  sense. 
I  reckon  you  be  in  high  favour  with  your  uncle,  and 
why  not?  But  he's  a  very  hard  man,  let  me  tell  you, 
Timothy  Snow.  He's  treating  me  very  bad,  and  I  resent 
it  with  all  my  might,  but  all  the  same  I  want  to  know 
if  there's  any  way  I  can  come  round  him." 

"  Why  for  should  you  want  to  ? "  asked  the  other. 
"  What  d'you  want  to  come  round  him  for  ?  'Tis  a 
mean  way  to  set  to  work.  Who's  right  and  who's  wrong  ? 
That's  the  question." 

They  walked  side  by  side  upon  an  ancient  tramway 
that  wound  out  of  Hey  Tor  quarries,  and  John  Redstone 
explained  his  position  and  the  attitude  of  Lot  Snow  to 
Dury  Farm. 

"  You  see,"  he  summed  up,  "  the  man  would  be  inside 
justice  to  snatch  it,  since  under  law  'tis  his  next  Michael- 
mas, but  against  that  he's  not  inside  fairness  to  do  so. 


104  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

He's  striking  my  dead  father  through  me,  and  that's  not 
a  sporting  nor  a  decent  thing.  But  I'm  very  ready  to 
bear  the  burden  of  my  father's  mistakes,  for  he  was  one 
of  the  right  sort :  only  I  claim  that  'twill  be  too  harsh  a 
course  altogether  to  take  my  farm  away  from  me." 

"  'Tisn't  your  farm  no  more  after  Michaelmas.  He's 
not  taking  it  away :  'tis  his  own.  You're  asking  my  uncle 
to  give  you  Dury.     Why  should  he  ?  " 

"That's  just  how  he  talks!  Can't  you  see  it  with  my 
eyes  ?  'Tis  my  ewe  lamb  —  all  I've  got  or  ever  shall  get. 
And  he's  rich  in  land ;  and  I  offer  and  undertake  full 
and  generous  payment  for  years  and  years.  I  offer  far 
more  than  the  money  he  lent  father.  What  would  you 
do?  Would  you  have  me  out  and  keep  to  the  letter 
of  the  law  for  an  old  spite?  For  that's  how  it  stands. 
He's  got  no  quarrel  with  me.  'Tis  the  dead  he's  think- 
ing to  be  even  with." 

Timothy  considered. 

"  That's  a  fool's  trick  and  not  like  him.  But  to  give 
you  his  farm  would  be  a  fool's  trick,  too,  of  course." 

"  I  don't  want  him  to  give  it.  I  only  ask  to  redeem 
it  with  interest." 

"  Maybe  he  doesn't  see  how  you  can." 

"  That's  my  business.  He  won't  see,  because  he  don't 
want  to  see.  He's  got  his  ideas.  He  wants  the  farm 
for  a  certain  purpose,  he  told  my  grandfather,  though  the 
purpose  he  didn't  name." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  said  Timothy,  "  but  it 
isn't  possible.  He  wouldn't  give  ear  to  me.  For  that 
matter,  I'm  going  to  the  man  with  news  this  very  day 
that  won't  make  him  very  friendly  to  me.  You've  got 
to  choose  in  this  world  between  being  selfish  and  being 
a  fool.  Anyway,  I  haven't  seen  no  middle  course  yet. 
My  uncle's  chosen  long  ago,  and  you  know  which  he  is." 

"  Right !  "  answered  the  other.  "  If  that's  so,  we  know 
where  we  are.     I'm  built  that  way,  too." 

"  Then  the  sparks  have  got  to  fly,"  declared  Timothy ; 
"  but  I  warn  you  not  to  be  hopeful.  He's  harder  than 
you,  because  he's  older  and  stronger  —  stronger  here." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  105 

He  touched  his  forehead.  '"  I'm  not  doubtmg  your 
wits,"  he  added,  "  but  Lot  Snow's  far  above  common 
men  in  his  own  way.  I  don't  fear  the  man,  because  my 
interests  and  hopes  are  out  of  his  reach,  and  don't  de- 
pend on  cash  or  any  of  the  things  he  makes  his  god. 
But  you're  in  a  different  position  towards  him  —  at  his 
mercy,  so  far  as  I  can  understand.  And  it's  not  much 
fun  being  at  the  mercy  of  a  man  who  hasn't  got  any," 

Redstone  debated  with  himself  on  this  saying. 

"  I'll  grant  his  great  brain-power,  but  brains  ban't 
everything." 

"  Yes,  they  are,  when  they  keep  inside  the  law.  If 
you  break  the  law,  the  law  will  jolly  soon  break  you. 
Your  father  broke  the  law,  and  you  reap  the  punish- 
ment." 

*'  Then  you  come  down  to  bed  rock.  I  try  to  keep  off 
that  where  I  can,  because  I've  got  a  hell  of  a  temper ; 
and  when  my  temper  gets  the  bit  in  its  teeth,  I  let 
everything  go.  But  if  he  won't  listen  to  reason,  he  may 
have  to  listen  to  unreason !  " 

"  Then  you're  dangerous  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and 
my  old  man  may  have  to  seek  help  against  you.  I'd  be 
your  friend  for  that,  for  I'm  dangerous  too ;  but  my  in- 
terest lies  on  the  other  side." 

They  spoke  at  some  length,  and  the  impression  created 
in  Timothy's  mind  was  one  of  interest  and  even  friendli- 
ness. He  recognised  in  Redstone  a  man  who  might  prac- 
tise what  he  himself  preached.  John  was  not  very  in- 
telligent, but  his  natural  instincts  appeared  to  move  with- 
out trammel,  and  he  showed  an  impatience  of  conven- 
tion and  common  opinions  that  attracted  the  elder  man. 
But  Redstone,  while  not  ashamed  of  his  fiery  temper, 
yet  admitted  the  possession  of  it  dangerous,  and  ex- 
plained how  he  endeavoured  to  hold  it  in  check. 

At  the  end  Snow  advised  him  not  to  be  sanguine  in 
the  matter  of  the  farm. 

"  You've  run  up  against  one  that's  bad  to  beat,"  he 
said.  "  I've  got  my  own  little  battle  to  fight  in  that 
quarter,  as  I  tell  you,  and  I  know  already  that  Lot  Snow 


io6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

won't  take  *  no  '  for  an  answer  if  by  hook  or  crook  he 
can  twist  it  or  beat  it  or  bluff  it  into  '  yes.'  He's  got 
to  go  under  to  me,  because,  against  me,  he  has  no  weap- 
ons whatever;  but  your  case  is  different.  In  your  fix 
he'll  have  his  way.  The  strong  will  be  strong,  and  if 
their  strength  comes  up  against  weakness,  the  weakness 
has  got  to  go  down." 

"  I'm  strong,  too." 

"  Not  in  this  case.  You're  weak,  or  your  case  is,  which 
amounts  to  the  same  thing.  Your  good  is  another  man's 
ill  in  this  matter;  and  he's  not  going  to  put  your  good 
afore  his  own.  'Twould  be  a  generous  and  a  kindly  deed 
to  let  you  buy  back  your  place,  or  let  you  try  to  do  it  in 
your  own  time,  but  he's  not  generous  nor  yet  kindly. 
And  in  this  matter  very  few  men  would  be,  I  reckon." 

"You  don't  see  the  justice  of  my  side?" 

"  There's  no  justice  in  it.  You're  asking  for  mercy, 
and  you  won't  find  me  backing  you  up  in  that." 

"  I  don't  want  mercy  from  him,  and  I'm  sorry  you 
can't  see  it  my  way,  for  I  say  'tis  justice  that  I  stand 
for." 

"  Don't  let  your  conscience  come  between  you  and  what 
you  want,  anyway,"  advised  Timothy.  "  I'm  very  hard 
set  on  trying  to  get  men  to  think  for  themselves,  and  to 
face  the  trials  and  difficulties  of  life  in  their  own  strength 
and  by  their  own  natures.  And  in  my  opinion  conscience 
is  a  fraud  and  leads  us  far  astray.  If  you  think  you've 
got  right  on  your  side,  then  act  according.  Here's  '  The 
Coach  and  Horses,'  so  you'd  best  come  in  and  have  a 
drink.  I  can't  give  you  no  advice,  and  I  wouldn't  if  I 
could,  but  I  reckon  we  think  alike  in  a  good  few  things, 
though  we've  come  to  do  so  by  different  roads." 

"  'Tis  funny  you  should  feel  so,"  answered  Redstone ; 
"  and  I  like  the  way  you  talk,  because  you  haven't  got  no 
copy-book  cant,  seemingly,  and  reckon  the  world's  to  the 
strong.  Well  for  you  it  is  —  since  you're  one  of  the 
strong  yourself!  I  hated  you  like  the  Dowl  when  first 
I  heard  you'd  got  my  billet ;  and  worse  —  far  worse  I 
hated  you  when  I  was  told  you  saw  a  good  bit  of  Dru- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  107 

silla  Whyddon.  But  there  'tis  —  you  be  one  of  the 
strong,  I  suppose,  and  the  battle  goes  to  them,  and  the 
booty  likewise." 

The  other  enjoyed  this  praise,  and  opened  a  little  of  his 
heart. 

"  I'm  here  on  that  very  errand,  and  don't  mind  telling 
you.  My  Drusilla  liked  you  very  well,  as  a  friend,  and 
made  me  feel  kindly  to  you  long  before  to-day ;  but  she 
didn't  find  love  wake  in  her  for  you,  so  it  was  in  vain  to 
pretend  it.  But  she's  tokened  to  me ;  and  now  I've  got 
to  let  my  uncle  know  it ;  and  as  he  had  very  different 
plans  for  me,  no  doubt  there'll  be  a  bit  of  a  clash." 

"  And  you'll  come  out  top." 

"  Yes,  I  shall,  because  I've  got  the  whip  hand.  He's 
old-fashioned,  and  still  thinks  the  old  generation  can 
make  or  mar  the  rising  one ;  but  the  time  is  past  for  that : 
we  go  our  own  way  now,  and  we're  better  taught  than 
our  fathers  were,  and  won't  be  interfered  with." 

"  I  wish  'twas  so  with  me.  But  I'm  terrible  ignorant. 
I  know  what  I  want,  and  that's  about  all." 

"  So  do  most ;  but  the  difference  between  cleverness 
and  ignorance  is  that  the  clever  ones  get  what  they  want, 
and  don't  waste  time  wanting  what  they  can't  get ;  and 
the  fools  cry  for  the  moon  so  often  as  not,  and  go  on- 
crying  for  it  to  the  end  of  their  stupid  lives." 

John  nodded. 

"  That's  to  say  you're  one  of  the  clever  ones,"  he  an- 
swered ;  "  for  you've  got  what  you  wanted,  and,  now  I 
know  you,  I  see  how  it  was."  He  referred  to  Drusilla, 
but  his  listener  was  not  aware  that  he  did  so. 

They  reached  "  The  Coach  and  Horses,"  and  Timothy, 
in  a  very  superior  mood,  gave  his  new  acquaintance  a 
drink. 

"  As  becomes  the  day,"  said  Ned  Blackaller,  "  we  be 
talking  about  the  difference  betwixt  right  and  wrong,  Mr. 
Snow ;  and  though  you'd  say  offhand  there  couldn't  be 
much  doubt  in  any  Christian  mind  on  that  score,  yet  'tis 
wonderful  how  the  brain  may  be  catched  in  a  mesh  of 
Vi'ords,    like    a    bird    in    a    net.     And    then    vou    can    be 


io8  THE  i'OREST  OX  TiiE  lliEL 

brought  to  question  all  things;  and  here's  Fred  Mo)'le 
making  even  the  Ten  Commandments  look  as  if  they'd 
got  the  rot  in  'em  —  a  doubtful  piece  of  work  for  a  po- 
liceman." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  We  was  talking  about  Nature,"  said  Amos  Kingdon  of 
Yarner.  "  As  a  keeper,  man  and  boy,  for  forty  year,  I 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  know  something  about  it,  and 
these  men  here  —  Snow  and  Redstone  —  will  bear  me 
out  that  what  I  don't  know  about  Yarner  ban't  worth 
knowing." 

"  Yarner's  one  thing  and  Nature's  another,"  said  Tim- 
othy.    "  You  know  a  lot  about  both,  however." 

"  It  takes  all  sorts  of  trees  to  make  a  proper  wood, 
and  all  sorts  of  people  to  make  a  world,"  declared  Mr. 
Kingdon ;  "  and  trees  be  like  people,  and  Nature  plays 
tricks  with  them  same  as  it  does  with  us." 

"  Nature  don't  bear  in  mind  our  likes  and  dislikes," 
said  Ned  Blackaller,  *'  and,  to  put  it  clearly,  you  can't 
understand  Nature  unless  you  begin  by  allowing  'tis  a 
fool." 

"  From  our  point  of  view,  Ned,"  corrected  Timothy. 
"  But  we  ain't  everybody." 

"  Ban't  we  ?  Who  else  is  there  ?  "  asked  the  publican. 
"  We're  taught  as  man  be  the  lord  of  creation,  but  Na- 
ture don't  take  no  more  stock  in  us  than  the  weed  by  the 
road ;  and  'tis  along  of  marking  that  fact  that  I  be  doubt- 
ful of  a  good  many  things." 

"  Hear !  hear !  "  said  Moyle.  The  policeman  was  off 
duty,  and  sitting  in  his  Sunday  clothes  with  other  men ; 
but  now  he  rose  and  went  out  of  the  bar.  There  was  a 
pause,  and  Kingdon  looked  at  Timothy  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"  An  unforgiving  man  is  Moyle,"  said  Blackaller. 
"  He  won't  stop  in  the  same  room  as  you,  Timothy  Snow. 
He  says  you  insulted  him  something  shameful." 

The  keeper  laughed. 

"  Silly  creature !     I  turned  him  out  of  Yarner,  because 

109 


no  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

he  was  trespassing.  He  knows  he  was  wrong,  and  isn't 
man  enough  to  admit  it.  He's  got  more  brains  than 
pkick,  seemingly,  else  he  wouldn't  have  cheered  you, 
Ned,  when  you  said  that  you're  doubtful  of  many  things." 

"  H  'tis  granted  that  Nature's  a  fool,"  said  Blackaller, 
who  unconsciously  loved  metaphysics,  '  then  what  about 
the  God  of  Nature  they  tell  about  ?  He's  above  our  wats, 
same  as  Nature  is,  and  He  does  things  —  scores  of  'em 
—  that  no  reasonable  man  would  dare  — " 

"  But  why,  but  why  ?  "  cried  Kingdon.  "  Why,  I  ax 
you  ?  Because  there's  one  rule  for  God  and  one  rule  for 
man.  He  makes  our  rules  and  lets  us  know  'em ;  and 
He  makes  His  own  rules  and  don't  let  us  know  'em. 
But  I  lay  my  life  He  keeps  'em !  " 

"  He  works  on  a  plan  above  our  wits  to  follow  —  you 
mean  that,  Amos  ?  "  asked  the  publican. 

"  Of  course  He  do ;  and  'tis  us  would  be  the  fools  to 
doubt  Him  without  knowing  His  purpose.  Would  you 
blame  schoolmaster  for  not  making  the  meaning  of 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  clear  to  a  year-old  babby? 
No,  you  wouldn't.  Then  why  do  you  blame  God 
A'mighty  for  not  making  His  meaning  clear  to  us?  We 
haven't  got  the  wit  to  hold  it  —  any  more  than  this  here 
half-pint  mug  could  hold  a  quart." 

"  What  d'you  say  to  that,  Ned  ? "  asked  Timothy. 
"  That's  how  Mr.  Kingdon,  here,  always  talks  to  me. 
Don't  you,  Amos  ?  " 

"  You've  got  a  lot  of  wrong  ideas,  and  are  proud  of 
'em,"  answered  the  head  keeper.  "  But  I've  hopes  of 
you  yet,  because  you'm  in  earnest  and  not  light-minded. 
But  you're  far  too  stiff  in  your  own  opinions  and  too 
vain,  Timothy  —  much  too  vain.  You'll  change,  how- 
ever, afore  your  hair's  grey  —  I  feel  no  doubt  of  that." 

Blackaller  had  been  considering. 

"  'Tis  not  thought  a  right  or  a  reasonable  thing  to  pass 
an  opinion  on  God,  and  yet,  since  He's  put  brains  in  our 
heads,  I  can't  see  why  for  we  shouldn't  use  'em  in  rever- 
ence upon  our  Maker,"  he  declared. 

"  'Tis  high  treason  to  say  a  word  against  the  king, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  in 

who's  but  a  man,"  said  Kingdon,  "  then  how  much  worse 
to  cast  a  shadow  on  the  perfection  of  the  Almighty 
Name?" 

Timothy  spoke. 

"  Parson  said  in  his  sermon  last  Sunday  that,  after 
wars  are  a  thing  of  the  past,  man  will  start  a  better 
fight  and  conquer  himself.  Now  would  you  say  that 
God  be  on  the  side  of  wars  still,  as  of  old,  or  on  the  side 
of  peace?" 

"  He's  on  the  side  of  right  —  whether  it  be  peace  or 
war  —  and  that's  enough  for  us,"  declared  Mr.  King- 
don. 

"  'Tis  a  pity  all  don't  feel  content  like  you,"  replied 
Blackaller,  "  but  many  cannot.  You  hear  such  a  lot  of 
people  say  that  God  will  be  pleased  if  they  do  this  or 
that,  and  read  His  Almighty  mind  easier  than  the  news- 
paper ;  and  then  they  turn  round  and  tell  us,  who  be 
deeper,  doubtfuller  sort  of  men,  our  duty,  and  get  cross 
with  us  if  we  don't  see  it  with  their  eyes." 

"  We  do  know  a  lot  of  His  mind,  because  He's  willed 
we  should  do  so,"  answered  Kingdon.  "  'Tis  no  im- 
pertinence in  us  to  tell  those  who  are  in  the  dark  where 
they  can  get  a  light.  You  chaps  don't  mean  to  be 
wicked,  no  more  than  a  child  playing  with  matches  do 
mean  to  set  the  house  afire ;  but  you'll  set  your  own 
houses  afire  afore  long,  for  you  be  playing  with  hell- 
fire,  in  my  opinion ;  and  them  as  might  have  the  light 
but  refuse  it,  will  suffer  most  for  their  wilful  wicked- 
ness." 

"And  what  might  your  opinions  be  on  the  matter?" 
Timothy  asked  John  Redstone. 

But  the  younger  only  laughed.  He  had  not  been  listen- 
ing. 

"  Haven't  got  none,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  waste  of  time. 
When  God  stirs  Hisself  on  my  account  and  brings  me  a 
bit  of  luck,  I'll  very  soon  throw  up  my  hat  for  Him. 
Everything  falls  awry  with  me,  and  the  harder  I  fight  to 
get  a  bit  of  good  out  of  life,  the  less  comes  my  way." 

"  'Tis  a  very  narrow   point  of  view  to   judge   your 


112  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Maker  according  to  His  Ireatment  of  you,  John,"  said 
Mr.  Kingdon;  "  and  when  you  was  at  Yarner  you  held 
l)roperer  opinions,  if  my  memory  serves  me.  But  then 
things  fell  out  crooked  with  you,  and  now  you  won't 
trust  no  more  and  go  over  to  the  enemy." 

"  You  must  judge  for  yourself,  and  'tis  no  sense  pur- 
ring over  God  for  being  kind  to  somebody  else,  if  He's 
imkind  to  you,"  answered  Redstone. 

Snow  applauded  the  sentiment. 

"  That's  reason  and  sense,"  he  declared ;  "  and  since 
'tis  impossible  for  our  wits  to  explain  why  the  man  we 
think  good  comes  to  grief  and  the  man  we  think  bad 
has  all  the  luck,  then  the  only  fair  thing  is  to  keep  an 
open  mind  and  not  take  sides.  The  world's  run  by 
chance,  in  my  opinion,  and  there's  only  one  person  in  it 
who  is  properly  anxious  and  keen  and  watchful  and 
hungry  for  a  man  to  get  on  and  have  a  good  time  and 
prosper  and  suck  the  best  the  world  can  give ;  and  that's 
himself." 

Mr.  Kingdon  shook  his  head, 

"  The  Board  Schools  have  got  a  cruel  lot  to  answer 
for,"  he  replied,  "  as  I  always  well  knew  they  would 
have.     A  pretty  world  'twill  be,  come  presently !  " 

"  Cheer  up,  Amos,"  said  Redstone ;  "  'twill  last  your 
time  and  a  bit  over,  and  whether  or  no,  there'll  be  no 
better  or  kindlier  breed  of  man  in  the  future  than  you, 
whatever  you  may  think  or  believe.  Would  you  punish 
man  or  mouse,  however  naughty  they'd  been,  if  you 
could  help  it  ?     Not  you  —  too  much  heart  you've  got !  " 

The  subject  changed,  and  Timothy  left  "  The  Coach 
and  Horses  "  and  went  his  way. 

He  considered  Redstone  and  approved  him.  He  per- 
ceived in  him  a  man  built  after  his  own  mental  pattern, 
and  likely  to  make  a  lasting  friend.  He  lacked  penetra- 
tion to  perceive  the  fundamental  differences  of  tempera- 
ment that  separated  them,  and  he  did  not  guess  that  the 
other  had  passed  through  fires  whose  fierceness  he  had 
never  felt.  That  friendship  might  subsist  between  them 
appeared  possible  from  John's  mild  and  easy  attitude ; 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  113 

but  for  the  moment  Snow  forgot  the  circumstances,  and 
ignored  the  prime  fact  that  Redstone  loved  the  woman 
he  was  going  to  wed.  He  considered  the  point  pres- 
ently;  then,  judging  the  other's  nature  by  his  own,  sup- 
posed, that  since  Drusilla  cared  not  for  Redstone,  he  had 
ceased  to  care  for  her.  His  attitude  of  mind  to  the 
younger  man  was  egoistic  and  selfish  to  the  verge  of  un- 
intelligence.  He  saw  in  Redstone  promising  material, 
and  the  emotion  of  the  propagandist  awoke  with  respect 
to  him.  The  larger  and  freer  nature  of  the  younger  was 
concealed  from  him,  behind  Redstone's  ignorance;  and 
Timothy  did  not  guess  that,  when  practice  rather  than 
preaching  was  the  matter,  the  pupil  possessed  character- 
istics likely  to  carry  him  farther  than  his  master.  But  a 
magistral  attitude  he  assumed,  and  hoped  that  he  might 
help  Redstone  to  larger  understanding. 

Then  he  dismissed  John  before  the  great  business  of 
the  day,  and  stood  in  the  presence  of  his  Uncle  Lot  and 
told  him  that  he  was  betrothed. 

The  older  man  listened  patiently,  and  suffered  his 
nephew's  story  without  interruption.  He  felt  great  sur- 
prise, but  waited  for  Timothy  to  make  his  statement. 

Then  he  spoke  mildly. 

"  I've  heard  you,  and  now  'tis  your  turn  to  hear  me. 
I'll  show  you  to  yourself,  young  shaver  —  and  that's  a 
thing  you  haven't  seen  yet,  for  all  your  sharp  eyes.  Just 
run  your  mind  back  a  bit  and  consider  what  I've  done 
for  you  and  what  I  mean  to  do.  But  look  how  you  an- 
swer me.  I'll  not  talk  about  kinship,  or  friendship,  or 
obligation,  or  anything  of  that,  because  you  belong  to 
the  clever  young  generation  as  haven't  no  use  for  such 
ideas;  but  I'll  just  stick  to  justice  and  no  more.  You 
be  so  terrible  great  on  justice  that  you  can  have  patience 
to  listen  to  what  justice  means,  I  daresay.  Well,  you 
drive  ahead  so  fast  that  you  quite  forget  who  'twas 
greased  the  wheels  and  put  the  horse  in  and  set  the 
reins  in  your  hands.  I'm  taking  no  undue  credit,  mind. 
I'm  not  saying  you  couldn't  have  done  without  me ;  but  I 
am  saying,  as  things  fell  out,  that  you  couldn't  have  done 


114  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

half  or  a  quarter  so  well  without  me  as  you've  done  with 
me.  And  I've  been  glad  to  do  it,  and  never  asked  for 
no  return  but  quite  the  contrary.     I've  given  and  given." 

"  Yes,  but  not  to  please  me  —  to  please  yourself.  You 
want  your  land  and  Farmer  Leaman's  all  to  be  lumped  in 
together,  and  you  make  your  plans  according  and  fit  me 
into  them,  as  if  I  was  no  more  than  the  brick  in  a  wall. 
You  look  at  all  men  only  as  useful  or  useless  from  your 
own  point  of  view,  and  you'd  mould  and  arrange  my  life 
just  to  fit  your  own  schemes  without  any  thought  as  to 
whether  'twas  seemly  and  proper." 

"  And  was  my  point  of  view  taken  without  any  thought 
of  you?  Was  it  to  leave  you  out  of  the  business,  to  fit 
you  with  a  fine  wife  and  make  you  my  heir?  Just  look 
over  what  I  had  planned,  and  then  ask  yourself  whether 
in  right  and  reason  and  common-sense  I  wasn't  justified 
in  expecting  you  to  see  it  with  my  eyes.  To  be  left 
rich  and  prosperous  with  a  pretty,  clever  wife  and  the 
regard  of  all  sane  people  —  that's  not  to  be  a  brick  in  a 
wall  —  and  you  are  headstrong  and  foolish  to  talk  so. 
Just  turn  it  over.  Nephew  Timothy,  and  understand  that 
I  won't  accept  what  you  tell  me,  and  won't  allow  it  nor 
yet  approve  of  it.  I  protest  with  all  my  might  and  main, 
and  say  this :  that  a  thing  that's  gone  such  a  little  way 
can  easily  be  altered.  Stick  to  justice  —  I  ask  no  more 
than  that  —  and  you'll  find  that  if  you're  just  to  me, 
you'll  feel  this  sudden  fancy  must  be  given  up.  I  made 
my  meaning  clear  long  before  you  saw  this  young 
woman,  and  you  knew  that  to  court  her  was  not  fair  to 
me." 

"  You  don't  believe  that,  for  all  you  say  it,"  declared 
Timothy.  "  You  can't  believe  it.  'Tis  nonsense,  and 
nothing  else.  You  wanted  me  to  marry  a  certain  girl, 
and  I'd  got  no  use  for  her,  and  there  was  an  end.  You 
know  her  and  you  know  me,  and  if  you'd  given  the 
question  a  thought,  or  looked  at  it  with  the  cleverness 
you  look  at  all  other  questions,  then  you'd  have  seen  in 
a  flash  it  couldn't  be.  Never  was  two  people  less  planned 
for  each  other." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  115 

"  On  the  contrary,  that's  what  1  know  and  you  do 
not.  If  you'd  paid  me  the  respect  and  justice  to  con- 
sider what  I  wished,  and  had  seen  Audrey  Leaman  and 
studied  her  character  and  listened  to  her  sense,  and  even 
her  nonsense,  you'd  very  soon  have  found  out  that  she 
was  the  cleverest  girl  in  these  parts  —  and  more  than 
clever  —  large-minded.  In  fact,  she's  just  what  you  want 
to  leaven  your  own  opinions.  A  better  match  couldn't 
have  been  planned,  apart  from  all  the  thousand-and-one 
reasons  for  it.  She  will  lighten  your  heaviness,  and 
make  you  take  other  people  more  serious  and  yourself 
less  serious.  She'll  enlarge  your  mind  and  soften  your 
judgment,  and  you'll  steady  her  here  and  there,  and 
show  her  life's  got  a  serious  side,  and  ban't  all  junket- 
tings  and  revels  and  love-makings.  A  comelier  pair 
couldn't  have  been  thought  upon ;  and  I'll  say  this  — 
for  your  ear  only,  and  trust  you  as  a  decent  man  to  keep 
secret  —  Audrey's  all  right,  and  have  the  sense  to  like 
you  very  well.  The  rest  bides  with  you.  I  choose  to 
pay  no  heed  to  what  you've  told  me.  'Tis  a  mistake 
you've  made,  and  the  sooner  it's  rectified  and  swept  be- 
hind you,  the  better.  You  see  I'm  not  vexed  nor 
troubled  —  only  regretful  you  should  have  been  wasting 
your  time  and  endangering  your  future.  And  as  to  this 
other  girl  — " 

"  I  beg  you  won't  treat  me  like  a  child  any  more,  Uncle 
Lot ;  'tisn't  worthy  of  you,  and  makes  me  feel  silly.  You 
know  I  didn't  come  here  with  the  great  news  that  I  love 
a  woman,  and  that  she  loves  me,  just  to  hear  you  say 
'tis  all  nothing,  and  must  be  put  behind  me  and  for- 
gotten. I'm  not  that  sort.  I  never  thought  I  should 
have  fallen  in  love  —  in  fact,  I  was  used  to  despise  it ; 
but  now  I  know  'tis  the  greatest  thing  in  the  world  — 
above  all  wisdom  and  all  the  rest  of  it ;  and  so  it  makes 
me  a  thought  wild  to  hear  you  calmly  say  I  must  give 
up  Drusilla  and  take  Audrey  to  please  you.  And  I  to 
say  that  it  is  justice!  Why,  you  know  right  well  I'm 
too  sane  a  man  to  be  put  off  the  object  of  my  life  by  such 
twaddle." 


ii6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"Justice  is  not  twaddle,  and  you  would  have  been  the 
first  to  allow  it  a  week  ago,  before  you  took  this  step. 
You  are  under  very  great  obligations  to  me,  Timotiiy, 
and  I  refuse  to  believe  that  you  are  going  to  ignore 
them.  No,  no  —  I'll  hear  no  more  of  this.  I  won't  re- 
member a  word  of  it.  I'll  do  what  you  will  wash  me  to 
do  a  fortnight  hence,  and  forget  all  about  it.  Patience 
made  alive  am  I  —  never  so  patient  before,  though,  and 
not  likely  to  be  again.  You  go  home  and  walk  in  your 
woods,  and,  w^hile  you're  about  your  business,  try  to  see 
your  duty  to  me  —  to  the  man  who  has  made  you,  and 
wishes  nothing  but  kindness  to  you,  and  asks  in  exchange 
for  all  that  he  will  do  —  what?  Nothing  but  justice, 
and  the  bare  compliment  of  being  met  half-way  in  the 
most  handsome  of  proposals.  Not  another  word.  You 
be  off  and  weigh  this  thing  out  to  the  last  grain.  And 
don't  play  the  fool  with  such  fortune  as  seldom  falls  to 
the  lot  of  mortal  man." 

*'  'Tis  no  use,  uncle ;  you  can't  override  me  like  that, 
or  fright  me  with  frowns.  I've  promised  to  marry  Dru- 
silla  Whyddon,  and  nothing  on  earth  will  come  between 
lis,  and  there's  no  reason  on  earth  against  it  —  least  of 
all  justice  to  you  or  any  other.  And  as  to  marrying 
for  money  —  ask  the  men  who  do  it  what  'tis  like  all 
through.  They'll  whisper  a  thing  or  two!  Everybody 
wants  their  money's  worth,  and  none  more  than  a  rich 
wife." 

Mr.  Snow  maintained  his  urbanity  and  self-control  to 
the  end. 

"  I  repeat,  I  will  not  accept  this  or  consider  it  for  a 
moment.  Nephew  Timothy.  Justice  is  the  first  and  fore- 
most reason  why  such  a  thing  is  impossible  now.  You'll 
see  it  the  moment  you  turn  your  mind  properly  onto  it. 
I  feel  no  fear  on  that  score ;  and,  what's  more,  the  girl 
will  see  it  too.  'Tis  any  odds  you've  hid  away  from  her 
a  few  things  that  she  ought  to  know.  However,  enough 
said.  Good-bye  —  unless  you'll  bide  to  supper  along 
with  your  aunt  and  me." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  117 

But  he  offered  his  hand,  and  Timothy  shook  it  and 
prepared  to  depart. 

"  I've  told  you,"  he  said.  "  You  had  a  right  to  know, 
for  one  Hfe  is  dependent  on  another,  though  not  in  the 
way  you  mean.  If  you  hadn't  got  me  the  work  at  Yar- 
ner,  I  should  never  have  fallen  in  with  Drusilla ;  and 
then  the  best  thing  that  has  ever  happened  to  me  would 
not  have  done  so.  So  I  thank  you  for  precious  things, 
though  not  the  precious  things  you  planned  for  me." 

"  Go,"  answered  Lot,  "  and  get  these  cobwebs  out  of 
your  brains." 

He  called  his  sister  when  the  man  had  left  him,  and 
exhibited  to  her  an  asperity  hid  from  his  nephew. 

"  That  fool's  got  hitched  to  a  girl  —  the  last  difficulty 
I  expected.  Somebody  by  the  name  of  Drusilla  Whyd- 
don." 

"  I'm  afraid  your  luck's  out  in  that  matter.  He's  not 
the  sort  to  be  changed,"  she  said. 

"  Isn't  he  ?  I  say  he  shall  be  changed,"  answered  the 
old  man.     "  This  shan't  go  through  if  I  can  prevent  it." 


CHAPTER  XV 

Lot  Snow,  as  one  who  had  not  known  love,  failed  to 
appreciate  intelligently  the  position  in  respect  of  Tim- 
othy and  Dmsilla.  He  argued  that  the  man  came  to 
Yarner  free  in  heart,  and  that,  having  learned  his  bene- 
factor's purpose,  in  all  right  and  reason  he  should  have 
become  a  consenting  party.  Timothy's  conduct  was 
inexcusable  in  Lot's  opinion,  seeing  that  there  had  been 
no  prior  attachment  when  first  the  keeper  came  to  his 
new  work.  To  have  fallen  in  love  with  somebody  else, 
when  he  might  have  pleased  so  many  people  by  falling 
in  love  with  Audrey  Leaman,  struck  Mr.  Snow  as  vexa- 
tious and  insolent  and  wrong-headed.  There  was  no  ex- 
cuse for  it.  He  felt,  therefore,  that  in  all  future  deal- 
ing with  his  nephew,  sentiment  need  not  actuate  him. 
The  younger  had  not  only  flouted  his  ambitions  and  de- 
sires, but  even  gone  out  of  the  way  to  frustrate  them. 
Hence  it  was  not  to  be  expected  that  Lot  would  tolerate 
such  rough  usage  without  a  counter-stroke.  The  cir- 
cumstance clouded  his  temper  and  hardened  his  heart. 
He  considered  how  best  he  might  break  Timothy's  en- 
gagement, and  yet  win  to  his  purpose ;  and  obscured  by 
a  rare  resentment,  foreign  to  his  usual  clear  judgment 
and  cool  temper,  he  told  himself  that,  whether  Timothy 
wedded  Audrey  Leaman  or  not,  he  should  never  marry 
the  girl  he  had  now  chosen  with  such  cynical  indiflFerence 
to  his  uncle's  wishes. 

He  was  glad,  however,  that  he  had  preserved  self- 
control  in  presence  of  Timothy,  and  felt  satisfied  that  he 
had  not  committed  himself,  or  indicated  his  future  line 
of  action,  if  the  other  persisted  in  disregarding  his  de- 
sires. The  old  man  felt  free  to  proceed ;  and  since,  with 
one  of  Timothy's  temperament  he  judged  that  little  time 
was  likely  to  be  wasted,  Lot  Snow  prepared  to  act  upon 

ii8 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  119 

the  first  opportunity.  A  deed  occurred  to  him  in  the 
hours  of  the  night  that  succeeded  his  nephew's  visit, 
and  two  days  later  he  took  the  first  step.  It  was  ab- 
solutely destructive  of  the  younger's  hopes,  and  he 
spared  no  pains,  patience,  and  subtlety  to  make  it  so. 
Another  man  might  have  hesitated  and  shirked  the  in- 
fliction of  such  infinite  pain ;  a  different  order  of  mind, 
familiar  from  experience  with  love,  might  have  suspected 
the  plan  of  action  vain  in  itself.  But  Lot  was  unhin- 
dered either  by  humanity  or  experience.  He  went  to  the 
fountain  head  of  the  matter  with  directness ;  and  the  acci- 
dent of  a  nature  specially  pervious  to  this  particular  at- 
tack, sufficed  to  crown  his  enterprise  with  immediate 
success. 

Lot  Snow  knew  Jenny  Widger,  and  called  upon  her 
about  tea-time  on  his  way  back  from  Manaton. 

He  hitched  his  horse  to  the  gate  and  tramped  heavily 
down  the  brick-paved  path,  beside  which  columbines, 
stocks,  and  gillyflowers  began  to  bloom.  He  knocked, 
and  Drusilla  came  to  the  door.  She  knew  the  visitor 
well  enough  by  sight,  but  he  did  not  know  her.  He 
guessed,  however,  that  she  was  Jenny's  niece  and  ex- 
plained his  errand. 

"  I  was  very  sorry  to  hear  that  Miss  Widger's  face 
had  got  a  good  bit  worse  of  late,  and  that  she  was 
suffering  a  parlous  deal  of  pain.  So,  chancing  back 
from  Manaton  I  thought  as  I'd  call  and  pass  the  time 
of  day.  Her  relations  was  very  well  knowed  to  me  in 
the  past,  though  they  be  mostly  gone  home  now,  I  be- 
lieve." 

The  invalid  felt  surprised  at  such  a  visit,  and,  before 
she  comprehended  its  meaning,  had  invited  Mr.  Snow 
to  stay  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea.  But  when  the  real  sig- 
nificance of  Lot's  appearance  occurred  to  her,  the  wom- 
an's sensitive  spirit  began  to  smart,  and  she  regretted  her 
hospitality. 

At  first,  however,  she  found  herself  in  no  little  excite- 
ment and  flutter  at  the  compliment.     She  set  Drusilla 


120  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

about  preparations  for  the  meal,  and  gave  Lot  a  lengthy 
and  exact  description  of  her  physical  sufiferings.  He  was 
kind,  and  affected  great  concern. 

"  Dear,  dear  me !  And  you  take  it  with  the  bravery  of 
a  regiment  of  soldiers,  I'm  sure.  Never  was  such  a 
courageous  creature.  'Tis  quite  the  talk  of  Ilsington  how 
you  bear  up  against  your  tortures." 

"  Well  they  may  say  so ;  but  none,  unless  'tis  this  girl 
here,  my  niece,  will  ever  know  what  I've  been  through 
by  night  and  day.  I  often  wonder,  in  my  pain,  what 
there's  in  store  to  make  up  for  it.  It  can't  be  but  that 
such  agony  as  mine  will  be  paid  for  with  interest  added." 

"  Them  the  Lord  loves  He  chastens ;  and  no  doubt, 
taking  it  all  round,  Miss  Widger,  He  loves  the  women 
better  than  the  men ;  for  certain  it  is,  that  He  puts  the 
most  and  the  worst  of  this  world's  pain  upon  'em.  And, 
in  a  sort  of  way,  the  back's  suited  to  the  burden.  Women 
suffer  better  than  men.  Why,  good  Lord !  there's  many 
a  female  have  endured  more  from  her  corns  alone  than 
some  men  have  got  to  bear  in  their  whole  lives !  Yet, 
when  all's  said,  there's  none  so  brave  as  you." 

They  spoke  a  little  longer  on  the  subject  of  Miss 
Widger's  failing  powers  and  approaching  end. 

"  I've  kept  my  part  of  the  bargain,"  she  declared,  "  and 
I  look  to  the  Lord  to  keep  His.  And  there's  little  more 
to  be  said  about  it." 

He  nodded,  glad  to  change  the  conversation ;  and  it 
was  then  that  poor  Jenny's  eyes  were  opened,  and  she 
perceived  how  not  her  sufferings,  but  her  niece's  engage- 
ment had  really  brought  Mr.  Snow  to  the  cottage. 

"So  Miss  Widger  is  your  aunt?"  he  asked  Drusilla, 
as  she  laid  the  tea  things.  "  Why !  then,  by  the  same 
token,  you'll  be  Miss  Whyddon,  the  daughter  of  that  hero 
that  saved  Sir  Percy's  son's  life  in  the  war?  " 

"  So  I  am,"  she  said,  and  her  head  was  full  of  interest, 
because  Timothy  had  not  told  her  on  the  night  of  his 
visit  to  his  uncle  what  had  transpired  at  that  visit.  For 
the  moment,  however,  Mr.  Snow  said  no  more,  and  fell 
into  silence.     He  ate  and  drank,  and  talked  on  general 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  121 

topics,  and  not  until  tea  was  nearly  ended  did  he  plunge 
suddenly  into  the  business  upon  which  he  was  come. 

"  What's  this  I  hear  of  a  tokening  between  you  and 
my  nephew,  young  woman?  Is  it  true,  or  be  Timothy 
dreaming?  He  comed  to  me  with  his  mouth  full  of 
news  o'  Sunday,  and  so  excited  was  he  that  I  couldn't  be 
sure  of  what  he  meant,  or  how  far  it  had  reached.  He 
was  a  trifle  shy  of  telling  me  about  it,  because,  to  be 
plain,  he  knew  my  views  very  well.  And  I  was  a  good 
bit  concerned,  and  —  and —  But  I  needn't  vex  your 
ears  with  the  silly  story.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  I 
misunderstood  him  ?  " 

Miss  Widger  spoke.     She  was  angry. 

"  Ah !  'tis  that  have  fetched  you !  And  didn't  I  ought 
to  have  seen  it  ?  Failing  fool  that  I  am,  I  thought  you'd 
called  about  my  face,  but  of  course  you  hadn't.  I  won- 
der that  you  can  take  advantage  of  a  sick  creature — 'tis 
cowardly  I  call  it  —  and  the  tea,  too  —  getting  tea  under 
false  pretences  like  that !  " 

Lot  blew  out  his  breath  and  drew  it  in  again  heavily. 

"  Good  powers !  what  a  terrible  indecent  thing  it  is  to 
tell  out  your  thoughts  like  what  you  do,  woman !  "  he 
said.  "  But  'tis  a  family  failing,  and  your  late  brother, 
Nathaniel  Widger,  done  just  the  same.  But  it  don't 
pay,  my  dear ;  and  when  your  thoughts  be  mistaken,  as 
in  this  case,  then  you  be  left  in  the  wrong  box,  and 
stand  the  chance  of  making  enemies.  I  came  for  two 
reasons,  and  'twas  just  as  much  to  tell  you  I  was  sorry 
for  your  trouble,  as  it  was  to  tell  you  I  was  sorry  for 
my  own.  You  ban't  very  reasonable,  Jenny  Widger,  and 
you  ban't  very  nice  —  to  say  it  kindly.  But  the  third 
cup,  as  I  want,  Fll  have  if  you  please  —  just  to  show 
I  bear  no  ill-feeling." 

"  I  see  through  you,"  she  said.  "  'Tis  my  fatal  gift 
that  I  can  see  through  all  men." 

"  Well,  I  don't  envy  you  the  sight.  We're  good  and 
bad,  but  oftener  bad  than  good.  And  now,  since  I  ban't 
welcome,  Fll  get  going.  And  I  hope  from  m)'  heart  you 
won't  be  called  upon  to  suffer  much  longer,  but  soon  fly 


122  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

away  to  your  martyr's  crown.  That's  a  well-meant  wish, 
at  least,  and  'twill  take  you  all  your  time  to  read  any 
wrong  meaning  into  it.  And  as  for  this  maiden,  if  she's 
done  her  tea,  perhaps  she'll  come  and  walk  by  my  hoss 
a  bit  and  have  a  tell." 

He  rose  and  shook  hands  with  Drusilla's  aunt.  The 
sufferer  was  puzzled  to  know  what  answer  would  befit 
Lot's  hope  concerning  her  future,  and  before  she  could 
think  on  a  right  reply  he  was  gone.  He  mounted  labori- 
ously, using  a  wayside  stone  as  upping-stock,  and  the 
girl,  with  a  beating  heart,  walked  beside  him  as  he  de- 
sired. 

At  first  her  fears  were  allayed,  and  the  old  man  woke 
a  hope  that  all  was  to  be  well ;  but  presently  he  revealed 
the  truth  of  his  inexorable  purposes,  and  set  them  before 
her  in  such  a  manner  that  her  own  freedom  of  action 
and  of  speech  was  taken  from  her. 

The  gloaming  brooded  and  waned  over  the  hills  as 
they  passed  slowly  along,  between  Yarner,  stretched  in 
shadow  below  them  and  the  moorland,  flaming  with  the 
last  of  the  light  above. 

"  And  so  you  like  my  fine  boy,  Drusilla  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Mr.  Snow." 

"What  for,  I  wonder?" 

"  Just  for  himself  and  his  own  character." 

"  D'you  know  it  ?  " 

"  A  little.  He's  too  clever  for  a  girl  like  me  to  under- 
stand all  of  him.  But  he's  wonderful,  and  he's  thought 
all  his  life,  and  read  hundreds  of  books  —  oh,  he's  very, 
very  different  from  all  other  men  that  ever  I  met  or 
heard  about." 

"  You  think  a  mighty  lot  of  him,  then  ?  " 

"  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  I  didn't 
know  a  woman  could  feel  so  for  a  man.  'Tis  almost  a 
terrible  thing  to  feel  what  I  feel,  and  it  frights  me  some- 
times. He's  my  life  —  waking  and  sleeping.  You  might 
say  he  was  the  breath  I  draw." 

"  O  Lord !     That's  poetry,  I  suppose,  but  a  very  clever 


THE  FOREST  OxN  THE  HILL  123 

way  of  putting  it,  no  doubt.  *  The  breath  you  draw !  ' 
Well,  well ! "' 

"  There's  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  love  of  him,  Mr. 
Snow.  I  can't  tell  what  I  feel ;  'tis  far  beyond  any  words 
of  mine.  He's  changed  my  life  and  made  it  a  blessing 
and  a  godsend,  which  it  wasn't  before." 

"  With  nobody  in  it  but  Miss  Widger,  'twas  on  the 
tame  side  for  sartain.  She's  a  sad  job  for  a  young  crea- 
ture. But  she'll  soon  journey  to  a  better  place,  and,  my 
word !  what  a  lot  she'll  expect  of  Heaven !  But  you 
won't  have  her  to  fret  you  much  longer,  anyhow." 

"  She  doesn't  fret  me  any  more.  I'm  only  full  of 
sorrow  for  her  —  for  all  she's  missed." 

"  Ah  !  So  you  see  life  now.  She's  missed  a  man  ;  and 
I've  missed  a  woman.     But  are  you  sorry  for  me,  too  ?  " 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  and  he  scorned  her  face  and 
failed  to  appreciate  its  intellectual  significance.  "  To 
put  a  gal  like  this  afore  Audrey !  "  he  thought. 

"  I  suppose  those  that  are  in  love  feel  sorry  for  any 
one  that  isn't,"  answered  Drusilla  to  his  question. 

He  made  no  reply,  and  she  grew  nervous,  and  her 
step  faltered. 

"  I  ought  to  be  going  back  to  my  aunt  now,  Mr. 
Snow." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  Touching  Timothy.  He's  a  lot  to 
you  —  your  life  and  breath,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  Well, 
tell  me  what  love  means,  because  I  don't  know.  'Twas 
one  of  the  good  things  that  didn't  come  my  way  —  too 
ugly  and  busy,  I  reckon.  But  just  you  tell  me  how  love 
makes  you  feel  to  anybody.  Do  you  put  him  afore  your- 
self or  after?  Is  it  a  selfish  or  an  unselfish  thing? 
Would  you  drown  to  save  him  ?  Do  you  mean  and  wish 
nothing  but  good  to  him,  or  do  you  look  to  him  first  to 
make  your  own  good  ?  Be  love  of  man  the  love  that  puts 
down  its  life  for  its  friend,  or  a  different  and  cheaper 
brand,  that  sets  self  and  the  joy  to  be  won  to  self  out 
of  the  love  higher  than  the  joy  of  putting  the  loved  thing 
and  its  good  afore  your  own  ?     I  doubt  I  don't  make  my 


124  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

meaning  very  clear,  being  ignorant  of  what  you  feel ; 
but  there  'tis  in  a  nutshell :  does  he  come  first  and  his 
good,  or  do  you  come  first  and  your  good?  Be  his 
good  yours,  and,  if  not,  which  would  you  put  afore 
t'other?" 

"  He's  taught  me  to  believe  our  good  is  one,"  she 
said.     *'  My  good's  his,  and  for  sure  his  good  be  mine." 

"  That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  reach  to.  And  the  ques- 
tion is,  do  you  know  his  good?  And  the  answer  is, 
you  don't.  You  don't,  Drusilla  Whyddon,  because  he 
don't  himself;  or  if  he  do,  he's  took  good  care  to  hide 
it  from  you." 

"Why  should  he  hide  it?" 

"  I'll  tell  you,  since  you  ought  to  know.  Granted  he's 
alive  to  it  —  for  such  a  clever  man  wouldn't  make  any 
mistake  or  be  blinded  by  love  or  any  other  passion  that 
smites  people.  Granted  he  knows,  then  you  ask,  why  is 
it  he  haven't  told  you?  And  I  knew  you'd  ask  that 
question,  and  I'm  here  to  answer  it." 

He  paused,  and  drew  up  his  horse  to  give  effect  to 
his  next  speech. 

"  In  a  word,"  he  said,  "  the  future  prosperity  of  my 
nephew  is  in  your  hands,  and  he  well  knows  it ;  but  he 
won't  let  you  know  it  for  fear  —  for  fear  such  a  strong- 
minded  and  fine  thing  as  you  appear  to  be,  would  do 
her  duty  by  him.  You're  right  to  think  well  of  the  boy. 
He's  good,  steadfast,  and  clever,  and  he  believes  that 
he's  honest.  But  as  we  stand  there's  a  sad  fear  that 
he'll  prove  otherwise,  and  do  what  can't  be  called  either 
honest  or  just." 

He  broke  off,  feeling  that  she  had  lost  the  thread  of 
his  argument. 

"  We'll  leave  that  and  come  to  the  point.  You  know 
that  neither  man  or  woman  can  live  to  themselves  alone 

—  don't  you  ?  Well,  Timothy  mustn't,  no  more  than  any 
other.  But  he's  trying  to  do  so.  He's  trying  to  forget 
his  obligations  and  responsibilities  and  the  state  of  life 
to  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  call  him.     He's  not  free 

—  nobody's  free.    The  case  is  peculiar,  and  there  are 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  125 

family  obligations  which,  if  he's  honourable  and  straight, 
he  must  face  and  accept.  He's  known  them  ever  since 
he  came  here,  and  it's  madness  trying  to  shut  his  eyes 
to  them  as  he  is  doing  just  now.  In  a  word,  his  duty 
is  to  obey  me  in  the  matter  of  his  future,  and  marry  in 
a  certain  quarter  —  his  solemn,  bounden  duty.  You 
didn't  know  that,  and  I'm  mighty  sorry  that  it  falls  to  me 
to  tell  you ;  but  you've  made  it  easier  by  your  very  high 
tone,  and  the  fine  feeling  you  have  for  Timothy,  and  the 
understanding  you  have  of  what  the  best  and  properest 
sort  of  love  stands  for.  You  mean  nothing  but  good  to 
Timothy  —  I  see  that  clearly  enough.  His  welfare  is 
more  to  you  than  your  own.  That's  why  I  tell  you  these 
things,  and  ask  you  to  help  me  now  to  show  my  boy 
his  duty.  And  if  you  can't  do  that,  you  can  do  better 
and  help  him  to  do  his  duty,  which  is  still  more  to  the 
point.  It  stands  like  this :  if  he  don't  wed  where  I  wish 
him  to  wed,  he's  ruined  —  ruined  for  evermore.  He 
knows  it,  and  it's  only  fair  you  should  also." 

Drusilla  it  was  who  now  stood  still,  and  the  old  man 
reined  up  his  horse  beside  her. 

"  It's  hard,"  he  admitted,  "  but  life's  full  of  these 
rough  knocks,  and  what  looks  pretty  bad  at  first  sight 
be  often  a  blessing  in  disguise.  If  I  didn't  think  a  very 
great  deal  of  your  character,  I  shouldn't  waste  time  talk- 
ing or  telling  you  how  the  matter  lies,  because  I  should 
know  'twas  useless ;  but,  seeing  what  you  are,  I  feel  a 
pretty  tidy  hope  that  you'll  be  able  to  put  his  lifelong 
good  afore  this  match-making,  and,  for  love  of  him,  re- 
fuse him.  And  you  may  look  to  me  not  to  forget  it,  if 
all  goes  well.  You've  spoken  so  terrible  strong  about 
your  love  for  him,  and  shown  me  that  'tis  built  in  such 
a  grand  pattern,  that  I  feel  most  hopeful  you'll  be  o' 
my  side.  In  a  word,  I  want  you  to  help  me.  I'll  bate 
nothing,  and  not  make  the  task  seem  lighter  than  it  is  by 
a  hair's  breadth.  'Tis  a  very  great  task  for  a  pair  of 
young  shoulders,  yet  so  high  do  I  set  you  that  I  think 
you  be  strong  enough  to  carry  it  through.  Will  you  give 
him  up  —  for  his  everlasting  good,  so  as  he  may  be  a  just 


126  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  honest  man,  and  do  rightly,  and  not  live  to  go  soured 
and  conscious-bitten  all  his  days  ?  " 

She  was  hysterical,  and  he  checked  his  impatience  and 
spoke  kindly  and  sought  to  calm  her. 

At  last  she  promised  with  the  voice  of  one  who  walked 
in  her  sleep. 

"  So  far  so  good,"  he  said.  "  And  such  a  grand  girl 
I  think  you,  for  making  the  promise,  that  if  'twasn't  for 
Audrey  Leaman  and  all  she  stands  for,  I'd  be  quite 
content  for  Timothy  to  have  taken  you ;  but,  you  see, 
it  can't  be,  and  come  presently  you'll  allow  I  was  right. 
The  man  is  too  high-minded  to  marry  you  without  mourn- 
ing his  duty  and  clouding  his  days  for  ever  afterwards. 
Well  begun  is  half  done,  they  say ;  and  you've  begun  well 
and  bravely  —  very  well  and  very  bravely.  But  'tisn't 
enough  you  tell  him  you  can't  take  him :  you  must  give 
him  no  reason.  Because,  you  see,  if  Tim  finds  that  'twas 
I  put  the  spoke  in  his  wheel,  human  nature  will  out, 
and  we  shan't  be  no  nearer  where  we  want  to  get.  In- 
deed, 'twould  ruin  all.  What  you've  got  to  say  to  your- 
self be  just  this :  I  want  for  Timothy  Snow  to  be  a  happy 
and  prosperous  man,  standing  well  afore  God  and  his 
neighbour;  and  'tis  in  my  power  to  help  him  to  be  so. 
And  I'll  do  anything  and  suffer  anything  for  that  pur- 
pose. So  with  that  high  resolve  you  just  throw  him 
over,  and  when  he  cries  out  for  the  reason  —  why,  you 
don't  give  no  reasons,  but  say  you  be  in  a  changed  mind 
and  ain't  got  no  more  use  for  him.  It  do  sound  harsh 
—  it  is  harsh  —  but  'tis  better  to  be  harsh  and  plain  as 
daylight  than  gentle  and  not  clear.  You've  got  to  bear 
the  burden  of  this.  I  wish  I  could ;  but  if  you  throw  it 
on  me,  all  our  trouble's  in  vain,  and  he'll  turn  against 
his  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  very  like  to  do  some  rash 
act  in  his  misery  that  a  lifetime  won't  serve  to  mend. 
There'll  be  a  cruel  temptation  to  tell  him  the  truth  and 
shrink  from  the  lash  he'll  let  fall  on  your  heart,  Drusilla ; 
but  bear  this  in  mind  while  you  suffer  —  that  you're  doing 
it  for  his  highest  and  best  good.  There  'tis :  and  be 
you  one  of  they  old-fashioned,  grand  sort  of  females  as 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  127 

could  do  such  a  big  thing,  or  ban't  you?  But  I  know 
the  answer  to  that  better  than  what  you  do.  I'm  pretty 
clever  at  reading  a  man  or  woman's  powers  in  their  faces 
and  hands,  and  I  tell  you  that  you  can  do  it  —  given  the 
Lord  on  your  side." 

He  ceased  and  listened  to  her  panting,  half  choked  by 
the  emotion  he  had  aroused.  She  was  hardly  mistress 
of  herself,  but  the  light  in  her  eyes  satisfied  him.  Her 
mouth  worked,  and  its  muscular  action  told  him  all  that 
words  could  have  told  him. 

"  Well  done  you !  'Tis  a  very  fine  thing,  and  makes 
me  feel  a  very  great  respect  for  you,  and  a  very  great 
respect  for  what  be  called  '  love.'  I  hardly  thought 
'twas  a  contrivance  stout  enough  to  rise  to  this.  Re- 
member—  no  reasons,  no  arguing,  no  going  back.  If 
you'm  strong  enough  to  do  it  at  all,  I'm  sure  you'm  strong 
enough  to  see  it  through.  You'm  made  of  rare  stuff  — 
like  your  father  was.  A  very  heroic  man,  but  he  never 
done  nothing  half  so  big  as  you  be  going  to  do.  I  think 
a  terrible  lot  of  you,  and  I  shan't  forget  it  —  I  shan't 
forget  it,  Drusilla  Whyddon.  You  be  worthy  of  any  man, 
and  too  good  for  most  as  ever  I  met  with.  But  be  that 
as  'twill,  I'll  find  you  a  proper  husband  some  day !  " 

And  he  kept  his  word,  by  act  of  fate,  as  yet  hidden  in 
time. 


BOOK  II 
CHAPTER  I 

At  three  o'clock  on  a  July  morning  Drusilla  arose  in 
torment  and  went  out.  The  lark  was  overhead,  and 
beneath  the  high  lands,  Yarner,  like  a  grey  blanket  woven 
without  pattern,  covered  the  valley  in  one  featureless  and 
mighty  sweep.  Above  it  slate-coloured  ridges  of  cloud 
hung  in  masses  parallel  with  the  horizon,  and  higher  yet 
glittered  Venus,  like  a  bead  of  gold  upon  the  pale  amber 
of  the  sky. 

Silent,  lucent,  breaking  out  of  night  at  the  dim  wood 
edge,  spread  the  monochrome  of  the  fern,  and  above  it 
spired  foxgloves,  their  forms  apparent,  their  colour  still 
invisible ;  but  a  little  radiant  crown  of  woodbine  above 
a  blackthorn  anticipated  the  honeysuckle  hues  of  the  sky 
with  its  own,  and  flashed  an  aigrette  of  pure  light  from 
the  thicket. 

Colour  crept  over  the  dewy  hills  and  dusky  woods. 
Within  Yarner  mysterious  patches  of  gloom  still  lurked 
imder  the  arms  of  the  forest ;  but  the  heads  of  the  trees 
were  brushed  with  a  tremor  of  light,  for  a  morning  wind 
played  upon  the  hillside,  and  set  all  things  in  glimmering 
motion.  The  awful  purity  of  the  hour  persisted  for  some 
time;  then  the  false  dawn  thrilled  with  its  first  flush, 
and  cloudlets  of  grey,  that  sprang  and  grew  out  of  the 
wind's  eye,  took  a  sudden  roseate  warmth  on  their  slate- 
coloured  breasts.  The  radiance  spread  and  flowed  over 
the  sky  to  the  zenith.  It  permeated  the  transparent  blue, 
as  a  tincture  irradiates  pure  water ;  and  through  the  rosy 
light  Venus  still  shone. 

The  cloud  feathers  increased  and  broke  and  whirled 
aloft  from  their  fiery  birth  below  the  horizon.  They 
glowed  through  a  range  of  all  sunrise  colours,  and  passed 

128 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  129 

from  pink  and  pale  russet  to  the  flash  of  flame.  Their 
forms  changed  as  the  wind  kneaded  them,  they  waved  in 
banners,  fluttered  in  ribbons,  Hmned  and  dislimned  upon 
the  increasing  brilliance  of  the  sky ;  and  their  wealth  of 
dazzling  light,  gleaned  from  the  invisible  sun,  reflected 
their  splendour  upon  earth,  until  a  glow  ran  over  the 
crowns  of  the  wakened  woods  and  the  interspaces  of 
the  heath  and  fern.  The  light  increased ;  the  mystery 
waned;  the  virgin  chill  of  morning  began  to  yield  to  the 
ardour  of  the  day.  At  four  o'clock  earth  had  donned 
her  proper  colours  and  wore  the  kirtle  of  high  summer. 
The  early,  delicate  wonder  of  the  foreglow,  familiar  to 
few  conscious  eyes,  had  passed,  and  the  great  pageant  of 
sunrise  was  at  hand.  The  world  waited  through  moments 
of  breathless  expectation,  and  Yarner  billowed  cold  and 
green,  for  the  first  rosy  magic  of  the  sky  was  over ;  the 
colours  and  the  clouds  had  gone ;  it  was  as  though  the 
whole  white  stage  of  heaven  had  been  emptied  for  the 
coming  pomp. 

Then,  suddenly,  a  fine  thread  of  gold  ran  along  the 
edge  of  the  east,  and  a  sunken  ridge  of  vapour  that 
huddled  on  the  horizon  was  outlined  with  fire.  The 
herald  flash  leapt  aloft,  but  light  failed  and  fainted  in 
the  immensity  of  the  firmament  that  it  w^as  called  to 
fill,  and  the  blue  of  the  sky  actually  deepened  before  the 
onrush  and  upward  stream  of  day.  On  earth  it  was 
otherwise ;  there  sunshine  burst  upon  the  w^aking  world 
like  a  lover,  embraced  her,  kissed  her,  ran  over  her, 
flooded  her  in  streams  of  splendour  from  her  hills  to  her 
valleys,  from  her  water-springs  to  her  seas. 

The  prodigal  light  met  air  chilled  by  the  nocturnal 
passage  of  the  north  wind,  and  where  all  had  been  crys- 
tal clear  and  without  one  stain  ;  where  all  had  stared  sharp 
and  definite  as  the  foreground  of  a  primitive  picture, 
now  a  wonderful,  transparent  glow  misted  over  Yarner, 
and  spread  upon  the  solid  green  bosom  of  the  forest 
diaphanous  vapours  of  red  gold.  This  spirit  of  fire 
rolled  deeper  and  denser  as  the  sun  rose ;  it  transformed 
the  woods  and  flowed  over  their  adult  verdure  until  all 


I30  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

was  mellowed  and  mingled  with  morning  glory.  Therein 
lay  the  supreme  achievement  of  light,  the  highest  stroke 
of  the  sunrise.  All  other  wonders  waned  before  this 
magic,  when  the  red-mouthed  morning  pressed  her  lips 
upon  earth  and  set  air  burning  like  a  blush  along  the 
hills.  The  ineffable  vision  persisted  for  a  while;  then, 
before  the  dayspring,  it  stole  away  into  the  depths  of 
the  river  valleys  and  little  glens  as  the  sun  ascended. 

It  was  the  dawn  of  the  year  as  well  as  the  dawn  of 
the  day.  The  pearly  husks  of  cast  sheaths  and  scales 
had  rained  under  the  trees ;  the  shells  of  hatched  eggs 
and  the  rent  aurelias  of  flown  insects  might  have  been 
found  by  the  searcher.  Under  the  regiments  of  the 
beeches,  and  through  the  dead  leaves  beneath  them,  last 
year's  mast  had  freely  germinated,  and  the  woodland 
ways  were  green  with  cotyledon  leaves  of  ten  thousand 
potential  trees,  soon  to  perish  under  foot  and  wheel. 

Drusilla  Whyddon  beheld  all,  and  the  sun-winged 
arrows  of  the  morning  smote  bitterly  into  her  heart,  for 
she  was  about  to  take  leave  of  everything  that  made  life 
beautiful  and  precious.  She  had  delayed  until  delay 
began  to  feed  upon  her  and  sicken  her,  then  she  braced 
herself  to  the  necessary  deed.  To-day  was  to  see  it ;  she 
knew  the  hour  of  Timothy's  passing,  and  remembered 
that  at  five  o'clock  he  would  be  going  homeward  from 
the  coops  of  the  young  pheasants.  She  went  to  lie  in 
wait  for  him,  therefore,  and  met  him  presently  at  a 
clearing,  where  some  thousands  of  silver  birches  had  been 
felled  during  the  previous  autumn.  The  poles  were  gone  ; 
the  stumps  were  sawn  up  for  firewood,  and  still  remained 
in  great  mounds  that  shone  as  though  they  were  made  of 
silver  and  pale  brass.  Already  from  each  root  sprang 
again  strong,  green  suckers  to  build  new  trees,  where  the 
coppice  had  been  shorn  away. 

"  Good  powers !  You  at  last.  'Tis  a  longful  time  since 
I  have  seen  you,"  cried  the  man.  He  set  down  his  gun 
by  a  wood-pile,  and  took  her  into  his  arms ;  while  she, 
knowing  it  would  be  the  last  time  he  caressed  her,  suffered 
it  and  fed  on  the  sacrament  as  one  dying. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  131 

"  'Tis  your  poor  aunt  I  know  keeps  you,  so  I  ban't 
fretting  over-much,"  he  s.-iid,  with  his  arms  still  round 
her  and  his  face  against  hers.  "  But  I  wish  she'd  pass 
and  go  to  peace,  and  let  peace  come  back  to  you.  You're 
always  so  full  of  her  that  I  don't  count.  'Tis  a  case 
for  the  dead  to  bury  their  dead,  as  they  say.  And  how 
have  you  escaped  to-day  ?  " 

She  did  not  speak,  but  shut  her  eyes  and  felt  his  face 
against  hers.     A  ray  of  hope  touched  him. 

"  Don't  say  she's  dead  !  What  luck  that  would  be  —  all 
round.  Then  we  could  fix  up  our  afifairs  and  make  our 
plans." 

"  She's  not  dead.  She  may  live  a  month  —  or  two 
months,  for  that  matter.  Tim,  listen.  There's  some- 
thing else  dead  —  something  else  have  got  to  be  dead. 
I  won't  beat  round  the  bush ;  I  won't  waste  time  coming 
to  it.  I  won't  torture  myself  any  more,  or  I  shall  go  mad. 
Tim,  this  can't  go  on  —  it  mustn't  —  I  don't  want  it  to. 
You  understand  it  all  comes  out  of  me.  I've  changed  — 
utterly  changed,  I  shall  always  care  for  you  and  think 
well  of  you,  and  —  and  value  all  you've  taught  me  and 
remember  how  you've  lifted  me  up.  But  —  you  haven't 
lifted  me  high  enough  —  not  high  enough  to  marry  you. 
There's  a  thousand  reasons  against  it.  They've  crowded 
down  on  me  and  pretty  well  smothered  me.  I've  had  a 
bad  time,  Timothy,  and  I  want  to  finish  it  and  get  back 
to  peace  if  I  can.     So  you  must  be  merciful  — " 

She  hesitated,  and  he  spoke.  For  some  moments  he 
had  been  staring  at  her  in  absolute  amazement  and  self- 
forget  fulness.  He  had  stood  frozen,  as  it  seemed,  w'ith 
his  jaw  fallen  and  his  arms  held  up,  exactly  in  the  posi- 
tion they  had  occupied  round  her  neck  when  she  slipped 
out  of  them ;  for  she  moved  a  little  way  from  him  before 
she  told  him  these  things. 

"What  the  mischief  are  you  trying  to  say,  Drusilla? 
Have  you  seen  a  ghost  in  the  wood  ?  Have  the  pixies 
been  at  you  ?  " 

He  laughed  at  his  own  jest,  felt  reassured  by  his  own 
voice  and  approached  her.     But  she  prevented  him. 


T32  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  Don't  touch  me  again,  Tim.  'Tis  all  out  now  —  'tis 
wrong  for  you  to  do  it.  It's  over  —  all  over  and  done. 
Old  history,  in  my  mind  —  so  old  that  it  seemed  queer 
and  wrong  for  you  to  kiss  me  just  now.  And  it  was 
wrong.  I  ought  not  to  have  suffered  it ;  but  something 
gave  way  in  me ;  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  wanted  your 
arms  round  me  just  once  more ;  I  wanted  to  feel  your 
lips  on  mine  just  once  more.  And  now  I  have,  and 
I'm  going  to  be  strong  and  — " 

Again  he  interrupted,  and  now  he  was  angry. 

"  If  this  is  a  game,  have  done !  "  he  shouted.  "  Poorer 
fooling  never  was,  and  I  won't  have  it.  What  are  you 
talking  and  pretending  and  snivelling  about?  Be  clear, 
as  you  very  well  know  how  to  be.  You've  angered  me, 
Drusilla,  because  well  you  know  this  is  not  the  way  to 
talk  to  me.  What's  the  matter?  If  I'm  at  fault,  tell 
me  the  fault,  and  let  me  say  I'm  sorry  and  be  forgiven." 

His  anger  faded  before  her  evident  suffering;  he  ended 
gently  and  approached  her  again.  But  she  kept  him 
off. 

"  Don't,"  she  said,  "  don't  be  kind ;  be  angry ;  be 
savage ;  be  mad.  You've  a  right  to  be.  I  can't  tell  you 
anything  —  not  a  word.  I  can't  excuse  it,  nor  yet  explain 
it,  nor  anything.  But  I  can't  marry  you,  Tim.  I  can't 
do  it  for  countless  reasons,  and  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
you,  and  you  must  hear  me  say  so." 

He  stared  and  looked  at  her  where  she  stood  very  pale 
by  the  silver  faggots  of  the  birch.  He  remembered  long 
afterwards  that  at  this  moment  had  come  to  his  nostrils 
the  scent  of  the  fir-trees  beside  the  clearing.  They  exuded 
a  morning  incense  under  the  sunrise  fires;  and  for  all 
his  days  henceforth  that  fragrance  stabbed  his  heart. 

"  Not  marry  me,  Drusilla !  Why  not  ?  What's  hap- 
pened to  turn  you  and  change  you  ?    Am  I  awake  ?  " 

"  Don't  think  that  any  idle  fancy  has  come  over  me, 
Timothy.  Look  at  me  —  look  at  me.  That'll  tell  you 
''tisn't  a  thing  of  a  moment  —  nor  the  act  of  a  know- 
nought  fool  or  a  mad  creature.  It's  got  to  be,  for  many 
and  many  a  cause,  and  I  know  it.  and  have  fought  it  out." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  133 

"  '  Many  and  many  a  cause,'  you  say.  You're  throw- 
ing me  over  for  many  and  many  a  cause !  Name  one  of 
them  —  I  only  ask  for  one." 

"  Don't,  then,"  she  answered,  "  because  'tis  vain.  I 
can't  be  answerable  for  my  feelings.  They're  not  in  my 
keeping.  Hard  you  may  think  it  and  wicked  if  you  like, 
but  I'm  neither  hard  nor  wicked,  and  yet  I  won't  go  on 
with  this ;  and  I  won't  give  no  reason,  neither.  I've 
seen  light  in  my  darkness  and  the  truth  of  some  things, 
and  that's  all  I  can  tell  you,  Tim.  Don't  ask  nothing. 
Be  that  kind.  'Tis  better  for  —  for  me.  'Tis  better  for 
me  that  I  don't  marry  you,  and  far  —  far  better  for  you, 
you  don't  marry  me.  And  if  you  can't  see  it  as  clear 
as  I  can,  Timothy,  the  time's  coming  when  you  will,  I 
loved  you  well  —  God  knows  it  —  and  you  loved  me 
dearly,  and  well  I  know  it  —  and  well  I  may,  for  I've 
got  to  live  in  the  memory  of  it  for  evermore.  'Twill 
be  all  the  light  left  in  my  life.  But  that's  all  —  that's  all, 
Timothy ;  and  I  ask  you  now  to  show  you  love  me  once 
more  —  just  once,  and  don't  torment  a  broken-hearted 
woman  with  questions  she  can't  answer." 

"  '  Can't  answer  ' !  Why  not  ?  D'you  mean  you're  go- 
ing to  give  me  up  without  a  reason,  Drusilla  ?  " 

"  No,  no  —  not  without  a  reason.  I  tell  you  there  are 
many  reasons,  but  I  am  not  called  to  give  a  reason. 
What  if  I  did?  Haven't  I  heard  you  laugh  at  a  woman's 
reasons." 

"  I'm  not  like  to  laugh  at  yours.  Just  pitch  upon  this 
wood  here,  and  think  what  you're  saying  and  remember 
who  you're  talking  to.  This  is  life  and  death,  remember. 
You  come  to  me  almost  in  sight  of  our  wedding  day  and  — 
and  say  'tis  all  ofif  between  us,  and  that  you  won't  marry 
me.  That's  bad  enough  if  'twas  true,  but  when  I  get 
over  the  blow  and  prepare  to  make  a  fight  for  my  own  — 
for  my  own,  Drusilla  —  you  lift  this  wall  afore  me.  'Tis 
to  be  blank  silence  and  no  reason  given.  O  Drusilla, 
what  have  I  done,  and  what  are  you  dreaming  about? 
Such  things  can't  be  in  simple  honesty  between  them  that 
love  each  other." 


134  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

His  face  grew  haggard  under  the  morning  ligiit.  He 
came  closer.  .\  wood-pigeon  claslied  away  above  Ihem, 
and  Snow's  dog  barked,  capered  fiercely,  and  put  its  fore- 
feet up  on  the  stem  of  a  fir.  Aloft  a  squirrel  sat  beyond 
reach  of  harm. 

"  Such  things  have  got  to  be  this  time,"  she  answered, 
"  and  don't  think,  because  I  deny  reasons,  there  are 
none.  I'll  neither  give  them  nor  deny  them ;  so  don't 
invent  reasons,  Tim,  else  you'll  do  me  more  harm  than  I 
deserve.  Let  me  go  —  a  million  words  won't  better  it. 
Let  me  go,  and  try  your  best  to  forget  me,  and  do  your 
best  to  find  another  woman  who  will  help  you  to.  You 
ask  what  you  have  done.  You  have  done  nothing  —  noth- 
ing but  love  a  woman  who  can't  wed  you  —  that's  all." 

She  rose  and  was  going  away ;  she  moved  a  few  paces 
with  footsteps  unsteady  and  a  body  swaying  helplessly ; 
but  he  would  not  let  her  go.  He  stopped  her,  and  took 
her  by  the  shoulders  and  led  her  back  and  made  her  sit 
down  again. 

"  Not  like  that,"  he  said.  "  You  forget  yourself  and 
you  forget  your  company.  Remember  that  I've  been  your 
first  thought  for  many  a  long  day  now,  and  you've  been 
my  life  and  hope.  You've  got  to  play  the  game  with 
me  —  such  as  it  is.  You  don't  slip  away  like  a  cobweb 
on  the  wind  now.  Such  things  can't  be.  A  man  such 
as  I  am  of  all  men  —  a  very  reasonable  man  —  a  man 
that  trusts  to  reason  and  looks  to  reason  to  pull  him 
out  of  every  fix  —  is  such  a  man  to  be  treated  like  this, 
without  rhyme  or  reason  ?  And  by  you  —  you,  famed 
for  being  so  gentle  and  so  patient  and  so  kind  to  all? 
So  kind  to  everybody,  and  so  quick  to  help  and  cheer 
and  do  good  works!  Is  that  to  happen?  Can  you  jilt 
me?  Can  you  look  in  my  face  and  say  you  don't  love 
me  no  more,  after  all  that's  passed  between  us?  Can 
such  things  be,  Drusilla?  And  if  you  love  me,  what 
becomes  of  your  many  reasons  for  not  marrying  me, 
against  that  master  reason  why  you  should?  It  might 
be  in  some  cases  that  the  best  sort  of  love  would  keep 
a  man  and  woman  apart,  but  by  good  chance  'twasn't 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  135 

so  with  us.  There  never  was  any  proper,  worthy  reason 
why  you  and  me  shouldn't  wed ;  and  not  you,  nor 
wicked  nor  good,  nor  angels,  nor  devils  could  point 
to  one.  We're  free ;  we're  strong ;  we're  all  we  should 
be  in  body  and  mind.  We  came  together  naturally  and 
properly  under  the  sky,  and  we've  courted  and  loved 
and  worshipped  under  the  sky,  and  there's  no  just  cause 
anywhere  why  for  we  shouldn't  wed.  And  if  you  say 
you  won't,  then  you  wreck  my  faith  in  all  creation  and 
ruin  my  life ;  and  your  reason  for  doing  such  a  thing  as 
that,  you  may  well  refuse  me,  for  it  must  be  a  damned 
wicked  one." 

"  Think  so  if  you  will.  Maybe  it  is  wicked,"  she 
answered.  "  I've  got  to  a  pass  beyond  all  feeling  now, 
and  I  don't  know  what's  right  and  what's  wrong.  I 
only  know  I  shan't  give  any  reason  for  it,  Timothy.  Be 
as  harsh  as  you  please.  Nought  you  can  say  to  me  will 
hurt  me  like  what  I've  had  to  say  to  you.  Don't  keep 
me  no  more.     I've  spoken  and  I  can't  change." 

"  You  throw  me,  then,  and  deny  the  reason  why  ?  " 

"If  you  could  think  that  I  could  do  that,  then  put  it 
so." 

"  How  else  is  there  to  put  it  ?  There  are  the  facts 
from  your  own  mouth.  There's  no  other  way  to  put 
it.  If  you  owed  the  right  of  being  frank  and  true  to 
anybody  on  God's  earth  at  any  time,  'twas  to  me  —  the 
man  that  loved  you  with  all  his  heart  and  strength.  And 
if  you  come  to  him  and  — " 

He  broke  off,  and  appeared  as  she  had  never  seen  him 
before  —  a  suppliant. 

"  What  am  I  telling  to  you  ?  'Tis  folly  and  nonsense 
—  say  it  is,  Drusilla  —  say  you're  dreaming,  or  I  am. 
You  can't,  you  can't  give  me  up  now,  my  precious  woman  ! 
You  love  me ;  you  want  me.  I'm  the  best  thing  in  your 
life  —  the  sun  in  it.  You've  said  so  a  score  of  times. 
And  me  —  me  —  think  of  me,  and  what  you've  been  and 
what  you  meant  to  be  to  me.  Think  of  all  we've  said 
and  thought  and  hoped  for  ourselves  —  of  our  plans 
and  of  the  joy  of  building  them,  of  the  little  things  as 


136  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

well  as  the  big  ones.  Is  it  all  to  go  —  all  to  be  passed 
over  and  forgot  ?  Drusilla,  you  can't  think  it ;  you 
haven't  weighed  all  this  means  to  me  and  to  you.  We're 
only  a  man  and  a  woman  with  nothing  that  counts  in  the 
whole  world  but  one  another.  'Twill  kill  you  to  do  it, 
if  I  know  you;  and  'twill  ruin  me  for  ever  and  spoil 
my  usefulness  and  — " 

His  voice  trailed  thinly  slower  and  slower  —  then  it 
stopped.  The  man  was  shaking  before  her.  She  had 
never  known  him  thus  to  lose  his  nerve  and  exhibit 
emotion.  She  had  yet  to  learn  that  under  exceptional 
stress  of  circumstances  this  inexperienced  soul  was  as 
weak  as  another  and  as  easily  thrown  from  self-posses- 
sion. In  the  time  of  her  departure  from  him  this  revela- 
tion came,  and  she  perceived  the  possibility  of  a  softness, 
a  power  of  feeling  and  capability  of  sentiment  that  she 
had  not  seen  and  not  guessed  at.  It  shook  her  to  her 
soul,  but  she  resisted  it;  and  the  phenomenon  never 
recurred  in  her  sight,  for  Timothy  Snow's  life,  albeit 
not  lacking  in  poignant  experiences,  did  not  lead  him 
over  such  an  abyss  in  her  company  again.  But  now  he 
stripped  himself  of  reticence  and  pride  before  her ;  for  a 
moment  he  tore  off  the  familiar  vesture  of  his  spirit ; 
he  even  grovelled,  as  it  seemed.  He  knelt  down  at  her 
feet  and  held  her  against  her  will.  He  implored  her  to 
speak,  and  let  him  help  her  to  renewed  reason  and 
justice. 

"  Your  love's  not  dead,  and  I'll  never  believe  it  if  you 
swore  it!"  he  cried.  " 'Tis  just  choked  and  smothered 
by  some  fog  that  has  got  in  your  brain.  Oh,  for  God's 
sake,  don't  hold  out  no  longer  and  wreck  two  lives  for 
some  mad  whim  or  some  false  belief !  You  can't  —  you 
can't  withhold  your  reasons,  Drusilla.  'Tis  judging  me 
without  a  trial.  'Tis  outside  your  character  to  do  such 
a  thing  —  'tis  impossible  and  unnatural  and  damnaJble. 
'Tis  as  if  a  devil  had  got  in  you.  Tear  it  out  while 
there's  time.  Don't  let  some  passing  madness  or  pass- 
ing lie  part  us  for  evermore,  so  long  as  any  power  re- 
mains to  us  to  escape  it." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  137 

She  was  amazed,  even  in  her  grief,  that  he  should  fight 
so  long  and  sink  his  pride  so  low.  But  she  kept  firm  — 
by  looking  to  death  to  free  her  presently  from  the  shat- 
tered life  that  would  remain  after  this  abnegation.  She 
made  haste  to  escape  from  him.  She  was  in  great  agony, 
and  only  the  thought  of  death  offered  any  anodyne  at 
that  moment.  She  did  not  answer,  but  strove  again  to 
leave  him  and  get  out  of  his  sight. 

Now  he  restrained  her  no  more,  but  let  her  go,  and 
his  last  speech  indicated  a  return  to  self-control,  and  a 
reassertion  of  his  nature. 

"  This  is  not  all.  I  won't  let  the  best  thing  that  ever 
came  into  my  life  slip  out  again  without  a  fight  for  it. 
'Tisn't  a  time  for  whining,  and  I'm  sorry  I  did.  Forget 
that.  'Tis  a  time  for  work,  and  I'm  going  to  work  to 
find  the  reasons  you  won't  give,  Drusilla.  And  when 
I  have,  I'll  come  back  to  you  and  make  you  swallow 
'em !  " 

He  shouted  the  last  words,  for  she  had  already  passed 
away  into  the  woods.  She  heard  all  that  he  said,  but 
did  not  turn  back;  and  presently,  when  she  had  gone. 
Snow  picked  up  his  gun  and  went  his  way.  He  became 
angry  before  he  reached  home  —  angry  with  himself 
for  his  abject  attitude  —  angry  with  the  woman  for 
bringing  such  self-contempt  upon  him.  He  was  deter- 
mined before  all  things  to  solve  this  riddle  and  win 
Drusilla  back  to  him.  He  believed  it  possible,  and  only 
one  reason  of  possible  reasons  would  have  rendered  it 
impossible.  But  she  had  not  ceased  to  love  him,  and, 
while  her  love  lasted,  he  doubted  not  that  his  strength 
would  suffice  to  beat  down  every  objection  to  their 
union.  The  thought  comforted  and  calmed  him.  He 
was  wrestling  with  his  difficulties  before  he  entered  his 
home ;  but  Sarah  Snow,  the  man's  mother,  heard  noth- 
ing of  them.  They  ate  their  breakfast  together  silently 
as  usual ;  while  over  the  forest  the  full  splendour  of 
day  unrolled  without  one  shadow  to  dim  it. 


CHAPTER  II 

John  Redstone  met  Audrey  Leaman  on  the  high-road 
under  Rippon  Tor,  above  Ilsington  village.  He  rode  on 
a  horse  behind  a  great  flock  of  sheep  newly  shorn,  and 
in  the  sunshine  they  shone  silver-bright  through  the  dust 
of  their  passing.  They  bleated  with  varying  notes,  and 
louder  than  their  noise  broke  the  explosive  bark  of  a 
big  black  and  white  sheep-dog  who  circled  about  behind 
them.  The  patter  of  their  feet  was  like  the  sound  of 
many  waters.  They  panted  and  thirsted,  and  there  were 
marks  of  weariness  upon  their  patient  faces. 

Audrey  stopped  the  man,  smiled  graciously,  and  lifted 
her  hand  to  be  shaken. 

"  Haven't  seen  you  for  a  hundred  years !  "  she  said. 
"  How  are  you  faring  ?     Have  you  heard  the  news  ?  " 

"  Needn't  ax  how  you  are,  and  nobody  in  sight  yet  up 
to  your  mark,  I  suppose?  As  for  me,  I  be  pretty  spry, 
seeing  all  my  troubles.  I've  sold  my  sheep  —  yes,  I  have ; 
but  don't  you  tell  anybody.  'Twas  neck  or  nothing ;  but 
'twill  be  all  right,  I  suppose,  now,  and  I've  got  to  make 
an  offer  to  Lot  Snow  —  blast  him.  He  can't  go  on  after 
what  I've  done.  'Tis  outside  honesty  to  do  less  than  meet 
me  half  way,  now  that  I've  made  such  a  sacrifice.  Tons 
of  money  for  him  now." 

But  Audrey  was  not  interested  in  Redstone's  affairs. 

"  I  hope  'twill  fall  out  as  you  wish.  Old  Snow's  gone 
on  me  still,  and  treats  me  very  nicely,  but  I  know  he's 
a  bit  of  a  terror  to  most  people.  I  believe  he's  awfully 
pleased  for  the  minute,  so  you  may  have  luck." 

"  What  about  ?  "  asked  Redstone. 

"  About  Drusilla  Whyddon  —  her  you  wanted." 

"  How's  that,  then  ?  "  he  asked,  and  showed  his  in- 
terest by  leaping  from  his  horse.  The  dog,  seeing  his 
movement,   went   before   the   sheep   and   stopped   their 

138 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  139 

progress.  Some  instantly  reclined  panting  upon  the 
road ;  others  left  it  and  sought  herbage  beside  the  way. 

"  Drusilla  was  tokened  to  the  chap  that  took  your 
place,  Mr.  Snow's  nephew  —  that  good-looking  man  with 
the  starch  in  his  neck.  But  he's  had  a  facer:  she's 
thrown  him  over !  A  nine  days'  wonder,  you  might  say. 
Lord  knows,  I  don't  blame  her.  I  expect  she  began  to 
find  him  a  bit  too  high  and  mighty." 

"  Drusilla's  chucked  him !     You  don't  say  that  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  do.  Everybody  knows  it  now,  I  believe.  He's 
raging.  I  met  him  a  few  days  ago.  We're  civil  to  one 
another  now,  but  he  was  walking  past  as  if  I  wasn't 
there.  However,  I  made  the  man  speak,  and  he  told  me 
he  should  leave  Yarner  before  long.  I  asked  why  for, 
and  went  out  of  my  way  to  be  nice.  You  know  I  can 
be,  Johnny." 

"  Devil  doubt  it." 

"  And  at  last  he  thawed  a  bit  and  swore  me  to  secrecy, 
and  told  me  that,  for  reasons  hidden  from  him,  Drusilla 
had  changed  her  mind.  I  was  really  sorry  then,  because 
he's  such  a  proud  sort  of  creature  that  this  work  will  be 
just  poison  to  him." 

"  But  why  —  why  ?  What  on  earth  made  her  change 
her  mind?     And  him  such  a  fine  sort  of  chap." 

"  That's  what  he  couldn't  tell  me,  and  I  wouldn't  tell 
him.  But  I  know  what  girls  are,  and  I  know  his  sort. 
However,  I'm  not  going  to  run  the  man  down,  because 
he  suits  me  very  well  in  some  ways.  And  if  he  liked 
me  instead  of  Drusilla,  I  should  have  soon  got  to  like 
him.  But  I  was  no  good  to  him,  and  'tis  lucky  for  him 
I  wasn't.     He  wouldn't  have  been  enough  for  me." 

"  How  you  talk !  But  I  believe  you  know  yourself 
best.     You'd  tire  of  any  one  man  —  eh  ?  " 

"  I'd  tire  of  any  one  as  ever  I've  seen  yet,  Timothy 
Snow  included ;  but  maybe  I'll  find  one  I  shan't  tire  of  if 
I  wait  long  enough.     All  the  same,  I'm  not  hopeful." 

Redstone  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  almost  un- 
consciously he  voiced  his  own  thought. 

"  Free  again  !  " 


I40  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Audrey  understood  him. 

"  Yes,  she's  free  again ;  and  maybe  after  her  dose  of 
the  high  and  mighty  Timothy,  she'll  come  to  see  the  sort 
you  are,  John.  I  do  think  that  you'd  wear  better  than 
Snow,  though  you  ban't  so  clever  and  fine  to  look  at." 

The  man  laughed. 

"  No,  no  —  I  don't  flatter  myself.  I  did  all  I  could, 
and  worked  at  her  terrible  hard  to  make  her  like  me; 
but  it  wasn't  in  her." 

"  Like  you  she  did,  I'll  swear.  All  the  girls  liked 
you." 

"  You  say  you  know  what  choked  her  ofif  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  guess.  Her  heart  failed  a  bit. 
He's  a  preacher,  and  she  couldn't  have  took  him  like  I 
could  —  in  a  large,  free  spirit,  and  without  being  feared 
to  think  of  future  adventures.  Her  idea  of  a  wife  is  — 
well,  you  men's  idea  of  a  wife.  And  my  idea  of  a  wife  be 
something  quite  different." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  your  idea  of  a  husband,  then,"  said 
Redstone. 

It  was  Audrey's  favorite  subject,  and  she  continued : 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  I  should  be  a  fine  wife  if  I 
loved  a  man,  but  he'd  have  to  take  me  in  a  proper, 
sporting  spirit.  On  the  whole,  'tis  as  well  that  Timothy 
hadn't  got  no  use  for  me ;  I'd  have  shook  him  up  too 
often." 

"  He's  full  of  very  fine  opinions,  however,"  declared 
Redstone. 

"  No  doubt  —  very  large-minded  —  where  he's  not 
pinched  ;  but  there's  one  law  for  men  and  another  law  for 
women,  and,  be  it  as  'twill,  Tim  Snow  ban't  large-minded 
where  the  women  are  concerned.  I  found  that  out. 
He's  just  the  very  man  his  wife  will  hoodwink.  I  told 
him  so  once,  and  he  said  that  I  judged  others  by  my- 
self and  didn't  know  what  a  good  woman  was.  He 
thought  he  knew  one  at  any  rate,  poor  chap.  But  this 
business  have  turned  him  pretty  sour,  I  reckon." 

"  Perhaps  he'll  come  your  way  now  ?  " 

She  considered. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  141 

"  I'd  take  him  for  a  husband  if  he  liked.  But  he  won't 
like  —  knows  too  much  about  me." 

"  Perhaps  Drusilla  will  come  round." 

"  That's  possible.  She'll  be  all  alone  in  the  world  in 
a  minute.     That  old  horror,  her  aunt,  is  on  her  last  legs." 

''  'Tis  a  great  mystery.  I'd  give  a  lot  to  know  what 
Drusilla  means." 

"  Ax  her.     She'd  tell  you." 

He  shook  his  head. 

*'  'Tisn't  for  me  to  go  in  sight  of  her  at  a  ticklish 
time  like  this ;  'twouldn't  be  sporting.  Though,  Lord 
knows,  I'd  dearly  love  to  do  it." 

Audrey  admitted  this. 

**  A  very  proper  thought  in  you,  Johnny.  I  believe  if 
you'd  made  love  to  me,  I  should  have  liked  you  as  well 
as  any  of  'em." 

"  But  not  better.  Saftey  in  numbers.  You'll  die  an 
old  maid  yet  if  you  don't  watch  it.  You  don't  know 
what  'tis  to  love." 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  beautiful  eyes  and  laughed. 

"  Can  you  teach  me  ?  " 

"  No,  I  can't ;  I'm  too  slow-witted.  I  shall  be  a 
bachelor  man,  for  sartain." 

"  That  won't  hinder  you  from  loving  the  girls." 

"  'Tis  only  waste  of  time  for  me." 

"  Well,  you  told  me  a  long  time  ago,  before  she  re- 
fused you,  that  Drusilla  thought  a  lot  of  you.  Perhaps 
she  thinks  more  now  than  ever  she  did.  Don't  you  be 
too  nice  and  stand-offish.  Maybe  she's  just  hungering 
and  thirsting  for  you  again  —  after  such  a  dose  of  t'other. 
And  now  you  know  how  'tis,  you'll  be  rather  a  fool  to 
hold  off  too  long.     That's  a  straight  tip  for  you." 

"  I  wonder,  "  he  said,  looking  with  hungry  eyes  at  the 
sky.  "  I've  told  myself  'tis  all  over  with  me,  and  I've 
grumbled  because  it  looked  as  if  I  wasn't  getting  my 
fair  share.  Unlucky  in  life  and  unlucky  in  love  both  — 
it  ban't  fair,  Audrey  —  is  it,  now  ?  " 

"  We'll  hope  you've  reached  the  turning-point,  and 
that  all  is  going  to  run  smooth  with  you." 


142  THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL 

"  You're  a  comforter,  anyway  !  " 

"  What  a  woman  ought  to  be." 

Her  face  fired  him  ;  her  mouth  invited  him.  He  looked 
round  about.  The  sheep  were  resting  and  grazing ;  the 
black  and  white  dog  had  gone  to  sleep  with  its  nose 
between  its  forepaws. 

"  Gi'  me  a  kiss,  for  the  love  of  the  Lord ! "'  he  cried. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  with  the  manner 
of  one  who  had  kissed  often,  obliged  him. 

"  There !  "  she  cried.     "  And  what  do  I  get  for  it?  " 

*'  Thanks  —  thanks  and  a  friend,"  he  answered.  "  If 
'tis  ever  in  my  power  to  do  you  a  good  turn,  I  will. 
Maybe  you'll  need  it.  You  ban't  going  to  live  a  tame  life, 
I  reckon.  There'll  be  storms  and  squalls  come  along 
whether  you  wed  or  bide  single.  And  my  advice  is, 
'  Don't  you  wed.'  You'd  make  a  proper  fine  lover,  but 
a  bothersome  wife.     Now  I  must  get  going." 

"  I  believe  I  could  marry  you  if  I  wanted  to,"  she  said. 

But  he  laughed  and  mounted  his  horse. 

"  Not  you  —  nor  any  other  woman  —  but  her." 

"  You'll  get  over  that.  'Tis  your  troubles  and  bad 
luck  have  kept  you  from  thinking  of  a  wife." 

"  There's  only  one  for  me,"  he  answered. 

"  And  she's  free  again.     I  wish  you  luck." 

"  Same  to  you." 

He  whistled  his  dog,  gathered  his  flock  and  went  his 
way,  and  she  proceeded  on  her  journey  to  Widecombe. 
She  had  always  felt  happy  with  John  Redstone  by  reason 
of  an  easy,  Dionysian  spirit  that  played  over  him  like  an 
aura.  It  awoke  her  kindred  spirit.  She  smiled  now  as 
she  thought  of  his  freckles,  fiery  moustache  and  fiery 
caress. 

She  was  sorry  for  him,  for  she  guessed  that  it  was 
not  on  his  account  that  Drusilla  had  thrown  over  Timo- 
thy Snow,  and  she  also  suspected  that  Lot  Snow  would 
not  meet  Redstone's  wish  whatever  it  might  be.  Indeed, 
Audrey  was  in  Lot's  confidence  to  some  extent,  and  knew 
that  he  desired  Redstone's  farm  for  his  nephew.  She 
w^atched  the  progress  of  events  with  interest,  and  was  a 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  143 

good  deal  concerned  to  see  what  would  be  Timothy's 
next  move.  He  had  told  her  that  he  intended  to  leave 
Yarner ;  but  he  did  not  speak  with  conviction,  and  she 
expected  that,  in  this  crisis  of  his  affairs,  his  Uncle  Lot 
would  appeal  with  renewed  force  to  him  and  influence 
him  in  the  direction  it  was  desired  that  Timothy  should 

go- 
Redstone  went  his  way,  drove  the  sheep  to  their  new 
owner,  and  then,  with  his  dog  at  his  heels,  rode  into 
Ilsington.  He  proposed  to  make  Mr.  Snow  an  offer 
of  considerable  money,  and  felt  sanguine  that  this  course 
would  save  the  situation  and  soften  the  other's  heart. 
The  plan  had  been  arranged  between  John  and  his  grand- 
father, and  the  elder  gave  it  as  his  opinion  that  such  a 
money-lover  as  Lot  would  not  resist  the  offer.  "  Even 
if  he've  got  no  bowels  of  kindness  to  him,"  said  old 
Jacob  Redstone,  "  the  man's  himself  and  a  noted  worship- 
per of  cash,  so  it  may  take  him  off  his  feet,  like," 

They  were  sanguine,  and  it  was  in  a  cheerful  mood 
that  the  farmer  now  dismounted  and  rapped  at  the  door 
beside  the  lich-gate.  Sibella  Snow,  Lot's  sister,  answered 
him,  and  being  out  of  earshot  of  the  house,  spoke  with 
him.     She  knew  the  circumstances  and  pitied  John. 

"  I'm  afraid  there's  no  seeing  my  brother  to-day,"  she 
said,  "  for  he's  took  bad  and  is  keeping  his  bed,  and  he 
won't  see  you  of  all  men  ;  because  he's  spoke  the  last  word 
on  your  business,  and  he  wants  your  place  for  his  own 
needs." 

"  But  things  have  altered,  and  I've  got  a  very  clever 
proposal  with  tons  of  money  to  it,"  said  John.  "  I  don't 
come  empty-handed  —  quite  the  contrary.  You  might 
tell  him.  Miss.  I  know  the  sort  he  is,  and  I  shouldn't 
be  here  to  waste  his  time  —  a  man  with  so  many  irons  in 
the  fire  as  him." 

"  So  he  has,  then  —  more  than  anybody  knows  but 
himself.  I'm  afraid  —  but  I'll  tell  him  you  mean  busi- 
ness." 

*'  And  won't  keep  him  —  say  that.     All  I've  got  to  say 


144  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

can  be  said  in  two  minutes,  and  then  he'll  sec  how  terrible 
much  in  earnest  I  am,  and  what  I've  sacrificed  and  lost  — 
all  to  keep  my  own.  'Tis  a  very  hard  thing,  Miss,  that 
Dury  should  be  took  away  from  me,  and  no  fault  of 
mine,  remember." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  that  —  except  that  it  is  hard. 
But  life's  hard,  John  Redstone,  and  no  man  begins  it 
free.  We  all  start  to  the  good  or  the  bad,  according  to 
our  natures  and  to  the  blood  in  our  veins,  and  them 
as  went  afore  us.  There's  always  a  legacy  of  some  sort 
—  for  good  or  bad  or  both." 

"  My  father  was  a  proper  chap,  and  I'll  never  grumble 
against  him  whether  or  no.  But  I'll  grant  that  he  flouted 
your  brother  and  galled  him  from  his  death-bed.  Be  a 
live  man  to  be  punished  for  the  work  of  a  dead  one? 
'Tisn't  sporting." 

"  But  'tis  the  way  things  fall  out,  all  the  same.  I'll 
tell  him  you're  here,  anyway.  Will  you  come  in  and  sit 
down  ?  " 

But  John  refused. 

"  Not  unless  he'll  see  me,"  he  answered. 

She  left  him  then,  spoke  to  her  brother,  and  returned 
presently  with  a  message.  Lot  was  prepared  to  see  the 
visitor,  and  John  soon  stood  by  the  old  man's  bed.  Mr. 
Snow  had  the  clothes  drawn  to  his  chin,  and  his  immense 
white  face  was  crowned  by  a  dirty  red  night-cap  pulled 
down  over  his  brow  and  ears. 

"  D'you  know  the  old,  ruined  mine  in  Yarner  Woods?  " 
he  asked  abruptly,  without  any  salutation. 

"  Know  it !  Of  course  I  do.  Wasn't  I  keeper  there 
for  years  and  years  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  then,  this  day  fortnight  I'll  be  there  to 
meet  you.  And  you  keep  the  matter  quiet  as  death. 
At  five  in  the  afternoon,  or  a  bit  later,  I'll  be  there. 
I've  got  ideas  about  the  place,  and  you  can  tell  me  all 
you  know  of  it ;  but  that's  neither  here  nor  there,  and 
a  secret  anyhow,  so  don't  you  say  where  you  are  to  meet 
me.  We  shall  have  it  to  ourselves,  and  I'll  hear  what 
you've  got  to  tell.     That's  the  only  time  and  place  will 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  145 

suit.  And  I  want  to  know  a  bit  about  the  old  mine  from 
you.  My  illness  have  thrown  me  back  in  my  work  ter- 
rible, and  so  soon  as  I  get  out  again,  I'll  be  more  than 
busy  to  make  up  for  lost  time." 

John  Redstone  was  irritated,  but  felt  it  idle  to  be 
angered  with  the  speaker. 

"  You're  like  one  of  they  cussed  lawyers  —  takes  a 
pleasure  in  putting  off  and  putting  off  and  putting  off. 
You  know  that  to  a  man  like  me,  with  my  future  at  stake, 
'tis  hell  to  bide  in  doubt  week  after  week,  especially  after 
what  I've  done  and  sacrificed." 

"  Larn  patience,  and  don't  show  your  teeth  at  me,  or 
else  I'll  draw  back  what  I've  said,  "  answered  the  frown- 
ing elder. 

"  I've  been  patient  —  nobody  can  tell  how  patient  but 
my  grandfather.  To  a  man  such  as  me  this  waiting  — 
But  there's  no  need  to  yelp  about  it,  as  you  say.  I  hope 
you'll  be  decent,  and  treat  me  as  you'd  like  to  be  treated 
yourself.  I'll  be  at  the  old  mine  next  Friday  week  at 
five  o'clock;  and  if  you  ban't  there  I'll  wait  for  you. 
And  I  know  all  about  the  mine,"  declared  Redstone. 

"  So  much  the  better.  Us'll  leave  it  at  that.  And 
don't  you  breathe  a  word  of  it,  or  tell  anybody  where 
you  be  going  to  meet  me,  else  the  people  will  smell  a 
rat.     None  must  know  as  I'm  interested  in  the  place." 

The  younger  man  departed,  and  soon  he  had  turned 
from  his  own  affairs  and  their  uncertainty  to  other  mat- 
ters. A  circumstance  that  dominated  all  the  rest  centred 
in  Drusilla's  action.  He  knew  her  for  a  very  steadfast 
woman  and  marvelled  that  she  should  have  broken  her 
troth  with  Timothy.  Deeply  he  considered  a  course  so 
unexpected,  and  much  he  puzzled  to  come  at  the  reason 
which  had  prompted  it. 


CHAPTER  III 

There  was  a  morbid  strain  in  Drusilla  Whyddon's  na- 
ture, and  love  had  not  hidden  it  from  Timothy.  She 
had  always  indulged  in  mysterious  silences,  and  sometimes 
she  had  broken  her  appointments,  and  sometimes,  when 
they  were  happy  together,  without  apparent  reason  she 
had  fallen  into  tears.  He  considered  all  these  things 
now  that  she  had  broken  with  him,  and  strove  how  best 
to  win  her  back  again.  At  times  the  desire  for  her  domi- 
nated his  pride  and  self-consciousness ;  but  not  seldom 
the  wrong  that  he  felt  at  this  treatment  exceeded  the 
grief  he  felt  at  it.  For  some  time  after  her  declaration 
he  kept  away  from  her;  but  since  none  came  to  him, 
and  none,  as  it  seemed,  had  taken  his  place  in  her  regard, 
he  began  to  wonder  whether  the  whole  scene  in  the  wood 
at  dawn  had  not  become  as  unreal  to  her  as  to  him. 
He  sought  her  to  give  her  opportunities.  He  declared 
to  her  that  some  evil  spirit  must  surely  have  been  fooling 
them  in  the  forest;  he  begged  her  to  deny  the  things 
that  she  had  said,  and  come  back  to  him  again.  But 
she  would  not.  She  did  not  hide  her  grief,  yet  refused 
to  change  her  fixed  resolution.  He  left  her,  and  was 
deeply  incensed.  For  a  time  he  held  off,  then  longing 
mastered  him  and  he  saw  her  again,  and  begged,  with  a 
humility  inspired  by  his  love  and  his  loss.  He  prayed 
her  to  save  the  situation  and  speak  fearlessly.  He 
guessed  that  his  faults  had  changed  her  mind,  and  en- 
treated her  to  state  all  her  grievance  that  he  might  make 
amends  and  err  no  more.  Drearily  they  traversed  the 
old  ground,  and  their  thoughts  and  arguments  moved 
in  a  circle. 

As  for  the  woman,  she  was  suffering  far  more  than 
the  man,  and  death  promised  the  only  possible  escape 

146 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  147 

to  her.  Each  day  made  the  renunciation  more  terrible, 
and  her  life  worse  to  be  lived.  She  watched  at  Jeiuiy 
Widger's  death-bed  and  envied  her,  A  sense  of  taint 
and  pollution  and  loss  drove  her  into  the  anus  of  death, 
and  when  she  walked  in  the  woods  for  brief  periods,  it 
was  the  suffering  woven  into  the  summer  days  that  chimed 
with  her  mood  and  challenged  her  attention.  She  felt 
herself  a  maimed,  unfinished  thing;  no  comfort  came 
of  her  self-sacrifice,  yet  from  the  depth  of  her  own 
miseries  she  could  find  it  in  her  to  be  astonished  at 
the  troubles  of  animate  and  inanimate  existence.  Happi- 
ness had  hidden  them,  but  now  her  eyes  were  opened 
by  suffering  to  see  suffering,  and  she  found  that  it  was 
everywhere ;  that  a  complete  prosperity  and  affluence 
in  the  woods  appeared  as  the  exception  rather  than  rule : 
that  success  only  belonged  to  the  mighty  by  right  of 
battle,  and  to  the  mean  by  strength  of  their  strangling 
legions.  The  giant  elm  had  won  its  way  through  a 
century  of  strife,  had  fovight  to  the  crown  of  the  wood 
and  established  its  claim  to  light  and  air  and  water,  so 
long  as  it  should  endure ;  while  the  herd  of  the  stinging 
nettles  that  claimed  kinship  with  it,  achieved  victory  by 
the  foul  weapon  of  poison  and  the  gift  of  numbers  and 
fecundity.  But  death  appeared  to  be  the  only  true  mon- 
arch of  the  forest  and  he  reigned  everywhere.  The 
battle  at  this  season  was  becoming  a  race  against  death 
for  reproduction.  She  saw  the  struggle,  and  felt  that 
Nature  must  be  universally  inconsistent.  Lentil  now  she 
had  shut  her  eyes  as  much  as  possible  to  the  underlying 
principles  of  life  and  death ;  until  now  she  had  sought 
to  dwell  rather  in  the  atmosphere  of  sentimental  values ; 
but  the  work  that  Timothy  had  begun  in  her  mind  was 
at  length  completed  by  hard  chance.  She  dreaded  death' 
no  more,  but  as  one  of  his  chosen  —  one  swiftly  to 
pass  out  of  life,  she  approached  him  fearlessly,  and 
wondered  to  note  how  near  he  had  been  all  the  time. 
Not  a  glade  or  dingle  but  showed  his  passing;  not  a 
tree  or  herb  but  hung  some  tattered  trophies  to  him, 
not  a  path  or  clearing  but  revealed  traces  of  him  in 


148  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

fur  and  feathers  and  the  fragments  of  dead  beasts, 
dead  insects,  dead  flowers,  and  dying  trees.  Death  be- 
gan to  look  to  Drusilla  a  very  blessed  matter,  after  all. 
It  would  still  the  torments  of  her  heart  and  brain. 
At  worst  it  was  a  dreamless  sleep;  at  best,  and  she  be- 
lieved in  a  future,  it  must  open  the  door  to  a  life  higher 
than  love,  a  life  where  all  things  would  be  changed,  and 
the  power  to  do  made  greater  and  the  power  to  suffer 
made  less  —  perhaps  destroyed  altogether.  She  longed 
with  increasing  longing  to  perish,  and  since  there  would 
be  none  to  depend  on  her  Avhen  her  aunt  passed,  she  felt 
no  claim  of  conscience  entered  against  the  deed. 

In  this  mood  Timothy  Snow  came  to  her  for  the  last 
time,  and  asked  her  to  speak  with  him ;  and  she,  feeling 
that  the  end  was  in  sight,  and  knowing  herself  too  strong 
now  to  be  shaken  by  any  appeal,  consented. 

They  sat  where  an  elder  tree  had  fallen  at  the  edge 
of  the  woods.  But  it  still  lived,  and  pointed  new  growth 
upwards  from  its  recumbent  pillar. 

"  I  know  your  time  is  very  full,  and  I've  no  more 
right  to  ask  you  for  any  of  it ;  but  a  man  doesn't  give  up 
what  he  wants  most  in  the  world  without  a  fight.  I  beg 
you,  Drusilla,  to  think  what  you're  doing.  It's  a  terrible 
thing  after  what  we've  been  to  one  another." 

"  I  know  that  —  I  know  how  terrible,  better  than  you 
do.  But  nothing  can  change  me  now.  I've  got  over  it ; 
I  don't  want  to  go  back." 

"  Can't  you  be  commonly  just?  Don't  you  see  what  it 
looks  like  to  other  eyes?  I'm  not  asking  you  to  come 
back  to  me  any  more  if  your  mind's  past  changing;  but 
I'm  asking  you  for  what  you  took  away,  and  I  do  think, 
in  justice  and  decency,  Drusilla,  you  ought  to  give  me 
that.  I  shan't  interfere,  mind ;  I  shan't  make  any  row  or 
strife.  I'm  proud,  and  I  couldn't  long  love  any  creature 
that  didn't  love  me  back.  But  things  have  happened  that 
seem  to  me  beyond  the  power  of  nature  to  bring  about. 
You've  turned  from  me  all  on  a  sudden,  and  I'm  innocent 
of  oft'ence  as  the  unborn  child.  Can't  you  do  me  this  scant 
right  —  this  bare  justice  —  and  tell  me  once  for  all  why 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  149 

you've  thrown  nie  over?  H  'tis  another,  say  so:  I  shan't 
quarrel  with  him ;  if  'tis  not  another,  then  'tis  something 
in  me  that  have  shocked  you  or  frighted  you,  and  I 
ought  to  know  it.  'Tis  a  very  cruel  thing  to  hide  it  from 
me. 

She  desired  to  plunge  into  explanations,  but  knew  that 
it  was  impossible.  If  once  she  began  to  talk,  she  must 
inevitably  weaken  and  offer  unarmed  statements  to  his 
attack.  A  stubborn  silence  was  her  only  safeguard.  She 
perceived  this  now,  and  regretted  that  she  had  come  to 
listen  to  him.  She  put  the  blame  on  the  man.  Her 
instinct  was,  if  possible,  to  quarrel  and  conceal  the  truth 
of  her  misery.  It  was  hard  to  do  so;  but  let  Timothy 
once  be  mastered  by  natural  anger  and  she  knew  that  he 
would  leave  her  and  spare  her  any  further  meeting. 

"  You've  said  all  this  before.  What's  the  use  of  it?  I 
can't  change,  and  I  can't  tell  you  why  I've  given  you  up. 
I  never  will  —  never." 

"  But  don't  you  see  that's  not  the  act  of  a  sane  woman? 
But  you  are  not  out  of  your  mind,  and  I've  a  right  to 
know  your  reason,  Drusilla." 

"  How  if  I  don't  know  it  myself?  " 

He  showed  impatience. 

"  Don't  play  the  fool  with  words  —  or  with  me.  That's 
worse  than  cruelty.  You  light-minded !  No,  no  — 
you're  pretending  —  to  gain  some  private  ends,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  it's  mean  and  low  and  unwomanly  and  every- 
thing else  that's  hateful,  to  do  what  you've  done  in  the 
way  you've  done  it.  Did  I  deserve  to  be  treated  so? 
Have  I  been  double  or  dishonest  or  crooked  with  you? 
Has  it  ever  fallen  in  any  man  or  woman's  power  to  say 
one  bitter  word  against  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  she  said,  hurting  him  de- 
liberately. 

He  started  and  looked  at  her. 

"  None's  ever  spoken  against  you  to  me,  if  that's  what 
you  mean,"  she  continued. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  know  that,  unless  they've  lied.  Per- 
haps you  would  have  been  glad  if  they  had  ?     Perhaps 


I50  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

you  would  have  been  glad  to  get  some  shadow  to  ease 
your  conscience  with?  I'd  forgive  any  change  of  mind, 
anything  that  you  weren't  strong  enough  to  fight  against. 
There's  nothing  —  nothing  I  wouldn't  forgive,  but  this 
brute  dumbness." 

"  I  wish  I  was  a  dumb  brute,"  she  answered ;  "  you'd 
be  merciful  to  that." 

"  And  ain't  I  merciful  to  you  ?  Ain't  I  patient  ?  Is 
there  another  man  that  ever  you  heard  of  would  be  more 
patient  ?  " 

She  struck  again.  From  the  depth  of  her  own  misery, 
his  griefs  seemed  trifling.  Her  nerves  were  raw  and 
jarring.  She  knew  that  the  end  for  her  was  near  at 
hand,  and  believed  that  he  would  weather  the  storm  and 
yet  live  to  be  a  happy  and  contented  man. 

"  Yes,  all  the  virtues  you've  got  —  and  know  it,  seem- 
ingly. 'Tis  a  great  consolation  to  you,  of  course,  that  the 
fault's  my  side." 

"  How  can  you  —  how  can  you  —  you  that  loved  me, 
or  said  you  did?  If  the  fault  for  all  Hes  in  me  —  if  I've 
done  wrong  and  been  stuck-up  and  proud  and  not  lover- 
like —  if  I've  choked  you  off  me  by  my  own  conduct, 
then,  for  God's  sake,  try  to  save  me  and  tell  me  where 
I  failed,  and  give  me  one  trial  to  do  better.  'Tisn't 
human  to  strike  like  this  w'ithout  w^arning  and  without 
cause.     Only  gods  and  devils  treat  man  so." 

"  I've  done,"  she  answered.  "  I  can't  talk  about  it,  and 
I  won't,  and  you're  wasting  your  time  to  try  and  make 
me.  You  go  your  own  way  and  find  a  better  girl ;  and 
don't  take  no  blame  to  yourself,  because  there's  no  need. 
Blame  me  —  I  don't  care." 

"  You  heartless  devil !  "  he  cried  out,  "  Not  to  care ! 
That's  worst  of  all.  Then  I'll  not  care  neither,  and  feel 
the  likes  of  you  was  only  the  likes  of  all  women.  You'd 
hid  yourself  a  bit  more  cunning  from  me  —  that's  all. 
But  you're  the  same  as  the  rest  —  a  cat-hearted,  selfish 
wretch !  The  lies  you've  told !  And  knew  right  well  you 
was  lying  with  my  arms  around  you  and  my  kisses  on 
your  mouth.     And  you  with  such  straight  eyes  and  a 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  151 

voice  so  true!  No  better  than  that  giglet  wench,  Lea- 
man's  daughter  — '  no  better,'  I  say  ?  You're  not  so  good, 
nor  so  honest,  nor  so  trustworthy,  for  she  don't  pretend, 
whatever  her  faults  may  be." 

"  Go  to  her,  then !  " 

"  Mind  your  own  business  henceforth  and  keep  my 
name  off  your  lips,  and  I'll  do  the  like  with  yours. 
You've  taught  me  some  things  I  didn't  know,  and  I 
thank  you  for  that.  And  now  I'll  set  about  forgetting 
you ;  and  I'll  do  it  —  for  you're  not  worth  remembering. 
And  the  thing  you've  done  is  a  terrible  bad  thing  —  re- 
member that.  A  cruel,  cold-blooded,  evil  thing,  without 
a  shadow  of  excuse  for  it.  Your  motives  are  bad  and 
vile,  and  you  know  it,  else  you  wouldn't  be  so  strong  to 
hide  them.  You'll  suffer  for  this,  though  you  may  think 
not.     You'll  smart  for  this  to  your  dying  day,  Drusilla." 

"  I  know  that,"  she  said.  "  It  won't  — "'  She  was  go- 
ing to  say  the  torture  would  be  short,  but  desisted.  She 
got  up  from  the  fallen  tree.  "  Don't  worry  me  no  more," 
she  concluded.  "  You've  got  to  live  your  life,  and  no 
doubt  the  maiden's  not  far  oft'  will  share  it,  and  make  you 
thank  the  Lord  I  dropped  you." 

"  I  do  that  now,"  he  answered,  "  for  a  worse  wife  than 
such  as  you  would  make  would  be  hard  to  find.  I'm 
punished  properly  for  being  fool  enough  to  trust  in  any 
woman,  and  never  again  will  I  do  it.  You're  all  of  a 
piece,  and  there's  no  truth  or  honour  in  you.  I'd  curse 
you  if  curses  counted.  But  there's  no  need.  You'll 
wreck  yourself  all  right,  for  you're  built  to  come  between 
yourself  and  the  light  every  time.  This  can't  be  hid  — 
it  must  out,  and  the  people  will  know  where  the  blame 
lies." 

"  D'you  think  I  care  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  care  —  I  know  that  much  about  you.  You 
care  a  lot,  and  you'll  care  more  and  more,  and  the  end 
will  be  worse  than  the  beginning.  This  ends  for  me, 
here  and  now,  but  it  don't  end  for  you,  and  you'll  live 
to  be  sorry  you  treated  a  decent  man  so  wickedly.  I'll 
see  you  no  more,  and  speak  with  you  no  more.     You 


152  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

can  go  to  your  friends  —  no  doubt  they're  more  high- 
minded  and  honest  and  decent  than  me." 

His  petulance  and  wounded  vanity  did  not  escape  her ; 
but  they  too  tortured,  since  it  was  she  who  had  dragged 
them  to  the  surface  of  him.  What  could  be  more  cruel 
than  to  strip  off  the  armour  from  the  weak  spot  in  his 
soul,  or  expose  to  the  light  the  nakedness  of  his  nature, 
which  he  strove  to  keep  hidden?  It  was  an  immodest, 
hateful  act,  and  her  spirit  writhed. 

She  said  no  more,  but  watched  him  turn  his  back  and 
go.  For  a  while  she  moved  listlessly  hither  and  thither. 
She  clutched  at  trivialities  to  allay  the  grief  of  her  spirit, 
and,  passing  the  rhododendron  bush  that  she  had  long 
cared  for,  began  to  break  away  the  seed  cases  and  relieve 
the  plant  of  them.  It  was  a  work  she  had  performed 
for  several  years,  because  a  gardener  had  told  her  that  it 
ought  to  be  done. 

She  ceased,  however,  before  the  task  was  completed, 
climbed  up  out  of  the  woods  and  went  home.  She  felt 
a  sort  of  gladness  that  the  last  scene  with  Timothy  had 
left  him  angry.  She  hoped  that  his  uncle's  ends  would 
presently  be  gained,  and  that,  when  he  had  recovered 
from  this  blow,  the  keeper  would  become  interested  in 
Audrey  Leaman.  But  her  thoughts,  that  were  calm  in 
the  moment  when  young  Snow  left  her,  became  terribly 
agitated  now  that  he  was  gone.  She  hungered  for  death, 
and  hungered  for  the  time  when  her  lover  should  know 
that  she  was  dead. 

The  doctor  and  a  nurse  were  with  Jenny  Widger  when 
Drusilla  returned.  The  end  seemed  near,  but  Jenny  de- 
clared herself  as  stronger. 

"  The  Lord  be  going  to  pile  sufferings  on  sufferings," 
she  said.  "  'Tis  His  will,  and  I  don't  complain.  I'm  in 
sight  of  the  reward  a'most,  and  I've  a  right  to  think  upon 
it,  and  comfort  myself  with  the  size  of  it." 

She  dwelt  upon  this  grateful  theme  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  others.  Her  sure  and  certain  reward  was  the  anodyne 
which  lessened  her  tortures  and  fortified  her  against  the 
losing  battle. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  153 

"  It  have  been  cat  and  mouse  between  me  and  God 
for  fifty  year,"  she  said  in  the  small,  dreary  voice  of  the 
dying.  "  Ess  fay !  for  His  own  secret  reasons.  And 
though  it  have  seemed  a  hard  fight,  and  I  very  near  lost 
it  more  than  once,  yet  I've  conquered  Him  in  the  end. 
I  daresay  He  was  very  much  surprised  to  find  what 
a  will  I'd  got.  They  say  cards  beat  their  makers,  and 
I  reckon  men  and  women  do  the  same  sometimes  —  the 
women,  anyway.  The  Almighty's  a  male  —  ban't  He  ? 
Ess,  He  is,  and  therefore  the  females  must  puzzle  even 
Him  in  and  out.  But  I  —  I  daresay  He's  been  proud 
sometimes  to  look  at  me  wriggling  in  my  frightful 
agonies,  and  keeping  a  stiff  upper  lip  the  while.  And  if 
I  know  anything,  there's  eternal  justice  behind  all  the 
Almighty's  ways ;  and  so  'twill  be  in  my  case.  Heart  of 
man  couldn't  rise  to  picture  a  fair  return  for  all  I've 
been  through,  but  the  wisdom  and  justice  of  God  will  rise 
to  it." 

"  What  is  it  you  would  like,  Miss  Widger  ?  "  asked  the 
nurse,  who  had  found  that  her  patient  was  easiest  when 
discussing  this  subject. 

"  He  knows  what  I'd  like  very  well,"  she  answered. 
"  I've  thought  it  all  out,  and  He  can  read  my  thoughts 
and  act  according.  I  want  everlasting  comfort  and  a 
heavenly  mansion  with  eight  rooms.  He  might  go  and 
plan  a  palace,  like  Yarner  House,  with  a  park  and  ten 
thousand  a  year,  but  all  that  would  be  nought  to  me. 
Simple  I've  been  in  this  world,  and  simple  I'll  bide 
through  eternity.  Just  a  nice  little  lew  place  in  the  full 
sun  of  His  countenance,  with  as  much  garden  as  we  had 
to  Ilsington  in  my  girlhood ;  and  my  old  father  and 
mother  to  live  along  with  me  and  be  looked  after.  And 
not  a  pang  of  mind  or  body  —  not  the  faintest,  leastest 
morsel  of  an  ache  or  pain ;  but  to  rise  every  morning 
without  a  stab  or  a  sigh  —  brisk  and  glad  to  wake  and 
get  up,  hungry  and  thirsty  as  a  bee,  and  ready  to  get 
breakfast  and  do  the  work  of  the  day  after." 

"Just  a  homely,  useful  life,  Miss  Widger?"  said  the 
doctor ;  and  she  nodded. 


154  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  That's  what  I  expect  —  and  work,  too ;  but  no  call  to 
do  the  work  if  I  don't  want.  Free  as  the  angels  and 
happy  as  the  queen,  and  just  one  useful  young  woman 
under  me  to  do  my  bidding,  and  one  useful  man  for  the 
garden  and  the  boss.  A  married  couple  might  do  very 
nice.  One  horse  and  a  open  trap  I've  always  felt  the 
need  of  and  shall  want.  Or  it  might  be  two  horses  and 
a  covered  tilt  for  winter.  But  'tis  no  use  telling  about. 
'Tis  all  waiting,  and  I  shan't  be  much  longer  afore  I 
enter  into  the  joys  the  Lord  have  planned.  The  prizes 
be  ready.  I  shall  scream  out  a  bit  afore  the  finish,  I 
expect,  and  then  I  shall  be  gone  to  my  great  reward." 

"  There's  no  need  for  you  to  suffer,"  said  the  man  ;  but 
she  contradicted  him. 

"  There's  every  need,  and  I  won't  have  you,  nor  any- 
body else,  coming  between  me  and  my  reward.  Don't 
you  go  dosing  me  if  I  shriek  out ;  because  every  throb 
I  miss  at  the  finish  may  be  a  trifle  off  the  rich  and  rare 
reward  and  a  few  precious  things  the  less.  'Tisn't  only 
the  creature  comforts  I  count  upon :  'tis  the  fame  of  it. 
The  quality  must  always  be  over  us,  because  they  was 
born  so,  and  there'll  be  kings  and  queens  and  tinkers  and 
plough  boys  in  heaven  just  the  same  as  here:  but  us'll 
all  be  weighed  in  the  same  pair  of  scales  for  all  that, 
and  my  great  sufferings  will  lift  me  up  to  a  very  high 
place ;  and  them  as  know  my  story  will  certainly  put  me 
above  themselves ;  and  t'will  get  out  in  time  all  I've  been 
through,  and  I  shall  have  the  people  looking  round  after 
me  in  the  golden  streets.  Ess  fay,  they'll  look  and  whis- 
per to  each  other  and  say,  '  There  she  goeth  —  that  little, 
humble  creature !  'Tis  Jenny  Widger ! '  they'll  say ;  and 
I  shall  stand  with  Job  and  other  suffering  heroes,  and  my 
place  in  company  won't  be  far  ways  short  of  theirs,  I 
suppose." 

They  agreed  with  her,  while  her  blazing  eyes  softened 
before  the  spectacle  of  the  future,  and  her  rejoicing  soul 
supported  her  body  until  she  welcomed  the  torture  of  her 
disease  and  felt  uneasy  in  those  times  when  nature  for  a 
little  while  allayed  the  torment. 


CHAPTER  IV 

A  FORTNIGHT  passcd,  and  now  that  her  final  refusal  to 
consider  him  had  sent  Timothy  from  her  sight  for  ever, 
Drusilla  suffered  the  full  onset  of  loss,  and  began  ter- 
ribly to  long  that  she  might  see  the  man  once  more  be- 
fore the  end.  A  day  came  when  she  watched  her  aunt 
die  at  dawn,  and  some  hours  after  the  old  woman  had 
passed,  Drusilla  wandered  alone  through  Yarner  and 
welcomed  the  thought  of  her  own  death.  She  had  not 
been  from  her  home  for  many  days,  and  knew  nothing 
of  what  was  doing  either  in  the  woods  or  in  the  world 
beyond  them. 

It  seemed  in  the  morning  light,  so  clear,  so  radiant,  and 
so  frank,  that  the  forest  was  standing  at  ease.  The 
woods  basked  in  August  sunshine,  and  glittering  insects 
flashed  among  them.  Bright  and  restful  was  the  hour, 
and  bright  and  restful  were  the  blue  horizons  that  broke 
dimly  through  the  trees,  Drusilla  heard  a  woman  sing- 
ing and  knew  the  voice.  She  sat  where  a  footpath 
crossed  a  heathery  hill  near  the  old  mine ;  and  to  her 
came  Audrey  Leaman. 

Audrey  ceased  her  song  at  sight  of  the  other  and  hesi- 
tated in  her  progress.  Drusilla  was  sitting  on  a  stone 
with  the  whole  splendour  of  Yarner  beneath  her.  She 
did  not  turn  at  the  sound  of  the  singing,  but  continued 
to  gaze  before  her  with  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  her  el- 
bows on  her  knees. 

Audrey  passed,  hesitated,  then  turned  and  came  back 
to  Drusilla's  side. 

"  Might  I  ask  how  your  aunt,  Jenny  Widger,  is  going 
on  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Dead,"  answered  the  other  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
indiflferent,  but  her  heart  beat  fast  and  her  interest  poured 
itself  out  upon  Audrey.     It  was  for  this  woman  that  she 

155 


156  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

had  yielded  up  the  cup  of  life's  joy.  To  these  lips  she 
had  held  it,  and  starved  herself  that  Audrey  might  not 
thirst.  She  marvelled  whether  this  girl  knew  of  the 
sacrifice,  or  was  aware  that  she  stood  before  the  victim. 
But  it  appeared  that  Audrey  did  not  know.  She  spoke 
quietly  as  beseemed  the  news,  but  it  was  clear  that  she 
regarded  Drusilla  in  no  sense  as  a  heroine,  neither  did 
she  dream  of  any  obligation.  She  was,  however,  sorry 
for  the  other  girl's  present  tribulation. 

"A  good  thing  —  poor  creature.  By  all  accounts  she 
had  a  very  bad  time  dying.  And  no  doubt  'twasn't  much 
better  for  you  looking  on." 

"  Very  dreadful,"  said  Drusilla.  "  She  was  one  of  the 
enduring  sort,  and  had  suffered  such  a  lot  of  pain  that 
it  got  to  be  second  nature  to  her.  Regular  greedy  of 
pain  at  the  finish,  and  didn't  want  to  miss  a  drop.  She 
kept  on  crying  out  she  was  like  Christ  at  the  end.  He 
wouldn't  drink  no  hyssop  nor  vinegar  to  deaden  the 
terror  of  His  doom :  and  no  more  would  she.  She  re- 
fused the  physic  at  last." 

Audrey  shuddered. 

"  Don't  tell  me  none  of  the  horrid  particulars,"  she 
said.     "  I  hate  death  —  oh,  how  I  hate  it !  " 

"  There  come  times,  however,  when  it  looks  better  than 
life  —  and  a  lot  easier." 

The  other  girl  stared,  but  Drusilla,  who  had  not  moved, 
still  sat  with  her  eyes  on  the  woods  beneath  them. 

"  I  hope  you  don't  feel  like  that  —  a  young  woman  like 
you,"  said  Audrey.  "  Death's  a  long  way  off  you  and  me 
yet,  and  long  may  it  bide  so." 

"  Who  can  tell  ?  Death's  at  every  turn  and  under 
every  leaf  and  behind  every  tree  stem,  waiting  and  watch- 
ing, though  you  can't  see  him.  But  he  sees  us,  and  he'll 
always  come  quick  enough  if  you  beckon." 

"  You're  queer  and  sick  along  of  all  you've  gone 
through,"  said  Audrey.  "  I've  been  wishful  to  know  you 
this  longful  time,  and  I  lay  I'll  cheer  you  up  if  you'll  let 
me  do  so." 

Drusilla  looked  at  her  doubtfully.     It  seemed  now  suf- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  157 

ficiently  clear  that  Audrey  Leaman  knew  nothing  of  the 
motives  that  had  prompted  her  to  surrender  Timothy 
Snow. 

She  did  not  acknowledge  Audrey's  offer  of  friendship, 
but  asked  a  question. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  in  Yarner  ?  " 

Audrey  hesitated,  then  felt  that  she  must  speak. 

"  I've  got  a  message  to  give.  You'll  excuse  me,  for  I 
know  what's  fallen  out.  Mr.  Lot  Snow  is  a  good  bit 
bothered,  because  he's  heard  nothing  from  his  nephew 
for  a  fortnight.  He  couldn't  come  himself,  so  he  sent 
me.     I'm  on  the  way  to  Timothy  Snow's  now." 

The  other  nodded  and  made  no  answer.  She  expected 
Audrey  to  go  upon  her  way,  but  Willes  Leaman's  daugh- 
ter in  a  moment  of  impulse  offered  friendship.  She  sat 
down  beside  Drusilla  and  spoke. 

"  Tell  me  to  be  gone  if  you  can't  suffer  me,  but  I'm 
terrible  wishful  to  be  friends.     Why  not?  " 

"  Friends  are  no  good  to  me  now.  You're  only  wast- 
ing time." 

"  Don't  say  that." 

"  You  mean  well,  but  you  don't  know  what  you're  do- 
ing or  saying,  I  reckon.  You  can't  be  no  friend  to  me, 
but  I  may  do  you  a  service,  perhaps." 

"  Thank  you  kindly,  I'm  sure.  You're  known  for  a 
very  kind  woman ;  but  you've  been  through  a  lot  lately, 
and  I'm  sure  'tis  everybody's  wish  to  be  on  your  side  and 
make  life  pleasanter  to  you." 

Drusilla  smiled. 

"  Don't  let  none  trouble  about  me.  I'm  going  my  own 
way,  and  I  know  where  my  best  happiness  lies.  Listen 
and  don't  talk.  I  understand  how  'tis,  and  we  needn't 
hide  anything  —  you  and  me.  Mr.  Snow's  uncle  wants 
him  to  wed  with  you.     And  what  d'you  say  about  it?  " 

Audrey  started.  The  other  spoke  without  passion  or 
even  animation. 

"  I  _  I  ?     What  a  question  !  " 

"  Maybe  I've  no  right  to  ask,  but  'tisn't  strange  that 
I  should  be  interested.     You   see.   Timothy   wanted  to 


158  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

marry  me,  and  I  wanted  to  marry  him,  and  we  were 
tokened.  But  I  changed  my  mind,  and  decided  that  it 
would  be  better  if  we  broke  off  the  match." 

"  I  know  —  everybody  knows.  Of  course  it  was  your 
business,  though  the  folk  felt  curious  to  hear  why." 

"  My  business,  as  you  say ;  and  the  why  don't  matter. 
At  any  rate,  'tis  an  ill  wind  that  blows  kind  to  nobody. 
I  hope  you  want  him,  and  will  have  the  wit  to  win  him. 
'Twill  be  the  right  and  proper  thing  to  happen,  by  all 
accounts." 

"  That's  a  funny  way  to  look  at  it,"  declared  Audrey. 
"  'Tis  for  him  to  win  me,  I  should  think,  not  for  me  to 
win  him ;  but  I'm  none  too  wild  on  him,  I  assure  you 
—  not  now.  I  don't  care  for  anybody  else's  leavings. 
Do  I  look  like  the  sort  that  would  be  content  with  sec- 
ond-hand goods  ?  No  —  Timothy  might  have  made  love 
to  me,  for  there's  them  that  wanted  it  to  be  so,  but  'tis 
too  late  now." 

"  Maybe  grapes  are  sour  with  you,"  said  Drusilla ;  and 
it  was  the  other's  turn  to  smile. 

"  Don't  you  think  that.  I'm  not  that  sort.  I  don't 
know  what's  in  his  mind  since  you  threw  him  over ;  I 
only  hear  he's  terrible  savage  about  it.  But  he  may 
offer  later  on,  and  if  he  does  I  expect  I  shall  say  '  no ' 
to  him.  Our  old  men  have  been  a  bit  too  busy,  I  reckon. 
You  can't  plan  things  for  a  girl  like  me,  or  a  man  like 
Timothy.  All  the  same,  I'd  dearly  like  to  know  why  you 
chucked  him." 

Drusilla  regarded  her. 

"  I  suppose  you  would,"  she  said.  "  Well,  you  can 
know  this  much.  It  wasn't  through  no  fault  of  his  that 
I  did  so.  A  woman's  a  woman,  and  her  mind's  often  a 
mystery  to  herself,  and  I'm  not  going  to  say  that  I  even 
know  myself  why  I  felt  called  upon  to  throw  him  over. 
But  I  did,  and  I  angered  him  very  bitterly,  and  made 
him  hate  women  in  general ;  and  that's  what  I  meant 
when  I  said  I  might  do  you  a  good  turn.  I  can  tell  you 
just  what's  in  his  mind,  and  just  how  you  ought  to  act  if 
you  want  to  be  his  friend  and  comforter." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  159 

"  Thank  you  for  nothing,''  answered  Audrey.  "  You 
mean  it  kindly,  but  that  knowledge  is  no  good  to  me. 
I'm  sorry  for  any  man  in  his  fix;  but  I've  got  no  use  for 
him  now  —  at  least  — "  She  hesitated,  argued  with  her- 
self as  to  whether  she  spoke  truth,  and  convineed  her- 
self within  the  space  of  half  a  minute  that  she  did. 
"  No  —  there's  no  doubt.  I'm  positive  —  positive.  He's 
nothing  to  me,  and  I  don't  want  to  be  his  friend,  and  I 
can't  be  his  comforter.  I've  got  a  pinch  of  pride,  too. 
He's  been  barely  civil  to  me.  I  don't  want  him  any  more 
than  you  do.  You  know  him  better  than  anybody  and 
you've  chucked  him.  You  won't  say  why,  but  you  did, 
and  that's  a  danger-signal  for  us  others.  When  a  man's 
been  thrown  over  at  short  notice  by  a  sensible,  quiet  sort 
of  girl  like  you,  there's  a  very  good  reason.  'Tis  a  black 
mark  against  him." 

Drusilla  listened,  and  perceived  that  Audrey  certainly 
entertained  no  sort  of  love  for  Timothy  Snow.  Interest 
she  admitted,  and  the  elder  doubted  not  that  such  interest 
would  have  ripened  into  love  if  encouraged  to  do  so.  But 
the  man  had  cared  nothing  for  Avidrey,  and  Drusilla 
began  to  see  now  that  Audrey's  incipient  emotions  with 
respect  to  him  were  finally  dead.  To  what  purpose, 
then,  had  been  her  sacrifice.  The  spectacle  of  its  utter 
futility  plunged  her  into  silence,  and  she  pursued  her 
thoughts  for  a  while. 

Then  came  a  man  along  the  footpath.  It  was  Amos 
Kingdon,  the  head-keeper  at  Yarner.  He  had  heard 
that  Drusilla's  aunt  was  dead,  and  expressed  his  satisfac- 
tion. 

"  She's  stood  enough,"  he  said.  "  Few  as  ever  I  met 
have  suffered  so  much.  She  made  a  proper  fuss  about  it 
certainly,  but  that  was  her  way.  I  hope  she'll  have  all 
she  expected,  poor  soul." 

"  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  a  bit  about  your  under-keeper, 
Mr.  Kingdon,"  said  Audrey.  "  I'm  here  with  a  message 
from  his  uncle,  but  I  don't  want  to  trapse  all  the  way 
down  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill  if  you'll  give  it  for  me." 

"  Not  you  nor  me  can  give  it,"  said  the  old  man.     *'  For 


i6o  THE  r^OREST  ON  THE  HILL 

why?  Because  Timothy  Snow,  and  his  mother  along 
with  liim,  left  Yarncr  last  night.  The  cart  came  up  from 
Bovey  for  their  goods,  and  they  was  off  and  away  before 
ten  o'clock.     I  lent  a  hand,  for  that  matter." 

"  Gone !  "  cried  Audrey. 

"  Gone  for  good.  I'm  a  little  in  his  secrets,  but  can't 
tell  'em  again,  because  I've  promised  not  to  do  so.  He 
saw  Sir  Percy  ten  days  agone,  put  his  case  very  strong, 
and  asked  to  be  let  off  at  short  notice ;  and  Sir  Percy,  as 
never  cared  for  the  man's  manner,  between  ourselves, 
was  quite  willing  for  him  to  go.  Not  that  you  could  say 
of  Snow  that  he  was  ever  rude  or  upsome  to  his  betters, 
but  he  only  just  missed  it.  Terrible  independent,  as  you'll 
bear  me  out.  And  the  quality  —  such  few  as  be  left  now- 
adays —  don't  care  too  much  for  that  take-me-or-leave- 
me  manner.  Snow  was  a  good  keeper  and  a  good  fel- 
low, but  he'd  got  a  way  of  talking  as  if  'twas  a  question 
whether  he  or  the  Almighty  was  the  better  man,  and 
Sir  Percy  didn't  care  about  it."  Then  Kingdon  turned 
to  Drusilla.  "  I  say  these  things  afore  you,"  he  con- 
tinued, "  because  you  know  the  truth  of  them  better  than 
anybody," 

"  But  his  uncle !  Whatever  will  he  say  ?  "  asked  Au- 
drey.   "  He'll  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling,  I  should  think," 

"  He  won't  like  it,  for  certain,"  admitted  the  keeper; 
"  and  so  sure  was  I  that  he  wouldn't,  that  I  called  upon 
Timothy  very  forcible  to  be  less  rash  and  reckless.  How- 
ever, he'd  lost  himself  a  bit  owing  to  his  misfortunes, 
and  because  he's  took  it  very  much  to  heart  this  maiden 
couldn't  marry  him.  He  was  at  war  with  life,  you  might 
say,  and  cruel  bitter  and  biased  about  it.  You  see,  he'd 
gone  trampling  along  so  cheerful  and  certain  of  hisself, 
and  so  fond  of  preaching  to  everybody.  Excellent  sense 
he  preached,  I'll  grant,  for  he  was  a  very  clever  young 
man ;  but  a  preacher's  an  irksome  pattern  of  companion 
outside  his  proper  place  in  the  pulpit ;  and  a  young  man 
that  preaches  makes  the  people  impatient.  Because  how 
the  mischief  can  he  know?  And  now  he'll  stop  preaching 
and  do  a  bit  of  larning  instead.     And  so  he'll  ripen  and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  i6i 

grow  a  bit  more  mellow,  and  a  bit  gentler  with  them  that 
err,  and  come  back  to  God  again,  we'll  hope.  And  the 
next  maiden  he  offers  for  will  find  him  humbler  than 
what  Drusilla  here  did." 

"  He  was  humble  enough  to  me  —  always." 

"  You  turned  him  going,  however,  and  I  daresay  he'll 
profit  by  it,  though  he's  lost  you." 

"  He'll  never  offer  again,  you  mark  me.  He's  much 
too  proud  to  ask  another  girl  after  this,"  said  x\udrey. 
"  In  fact,  the  wonder  to  me  was  that  he  ever  found  a 
girl  to  make  him  so  far  forget  his  grand  self  as  to  love 
at  all.  He's  a  fine  chap,  and  I  always  allowed  that 
frankly  enough,  though  he  couldn't  abide  me." 

They  talked  a  while  longer,  and  their  speech  stabbed 
Drusilla  with  every  word  of  it ;  but  for  a  time,  dazed  and 
inert,  she  endured.  Pain  was  her  portion  henceforth, 
and  she  had  become  indifferent  to  it  since  the  end  was 
in  sight.  She  prepared  to  leave  them  presently,  and 
when,  their  thoughts  brought  back  to  her  by  her  departure, 
Audrey  and  Mr.  Kingdon  asked  her  the  nature  of  her 
own  plans  for  the  future,  she  replied  that  she  did  not 
know  as  yet  what  she  should  do. 

Her  grief  and  suffering  were  very  apparent  —  the 
others  spoke  of  it  when  she  was  gone.  The  man 
startled  Audrey  Leaman  and  opened  her  eyes,  for  he 
was  not  unintelligent,  and  guessed  pretty  accurately  at 
the  truth. 

They  spoke  of  Lot  Snow,  and  the  keeper  suspected  that 
he  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  tragedy. 

"  We  all  know  him,"  he  said  — "  a  deep  chap,  who 
never  lets  his  right  hand  know  what  his  left  is  up  to. 
But  I'll  w^ager  he  saw  the  only  way  to  get  Timothy  oflf 
her.  'Twasn't  any  good  going  to  him,  so  the  old  fox 
goes  to  her.  'Tis  him  that's  made  her  chuck  his  nephew, 
and  now  he's  going  to  reap  the  last  reward  he  expected. 
Clever  though  he  is,  he  reckoned  without  his  host  when 
he  thought  to  make  Timothy  Snow  do  his  bidding  like 
a  sheep-dog.  'Tis  all  up  now,  and  he  won't  ever  find 
out  where  Master  Timothy's  gone,  I  daresay.    And  even  if 


i62  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

he  do,  'twill  be  above  his  power  to  fetch  him  back  again, 
or  alter  his  plans.  'Tis  just  one  of  those  silly  mistakes 
them  that  trust  only  to  the  power  of  money  be  so  apt 
to  make.  He  didn't  know  the  nature  he'd  got  to  deal 
with,  or  surely  he'd  never  have  wasted  such  a  lot  of  his 
precious  time  trying  to  buy  what  wasn't  for  sale." 

But  Audrey  only  considered  the  theory  of  the  rupture. 

"  To  think  'twas  that,  and  I  never  guessed  it !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  What  an  old  beast  he  is  —  Lot  Snow,  I 
mean.  Now,  if  there's  anything  I  be  set  upon  to  do  in 
the  world  'tis  to  bring  that  man  and  woman  together 
again ! " 

"  Don't  you  be  busy,"  advised  Amos.  "  You  keep  out 
of  it,  or  you'll  have  a  hornet's  nest  let  loose  round  your 
ears.  Them  men  have  failed  —  your  father  and  his 
uncle,  I  mean.  As  for  the  future,  don't  you  meddle  in  it. 
If  they  be  meant  to  come  together  again,  come  they  will 
with  no  help  from  you.  But  I  don't  think  'tis  in  nature 
they  should  now.  He's  reached  the  raging  stage,  and 
properly  hates  her  for  chucking  him  without  a  cause.  Of 
course,  if  he  knew  what  I  guess,  he  might  repent  and 
sneak  to  her  again  in  a  different  spirit;  but  the  thing's 
better  left  in  Higher  hands,  in  my  opinion." 

Youth,  however,  did  not  conform  to  this  cautious 
view. 

"  Higher  hands  want  human  hands  to  help  'em,  don't 
they?  You're  a  silly,  old  coward,  Mr.  Kingdon ;  and 
what's  the  use  of  being  clever  enough  to  see  the  truth, 
if  you  weren't  plucky  enough  to  show  Timothy?  You 
ought  to  have  told  him ;  and  I  shall,  when  I  get  the 
chance.  Why,  'tis  a  cruel,  beastly  shame  for  her  to 
sacrifice  herself  like  that  —  and  all  for  nothing.  And  you 
to  have  seen  how  'twas,  and  kept  your  mouth  shut !  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  said  a  lot,"  declared  the  old  man, 
"  but  I  wasn't  bound  to  air  my  secret  opinions.  How  do 
I  know  I'm  right?  I  may  be  wrong.  Drusilla  may  have 
throwed  him  over  for  her  own  reasons,  not  Lot  Snow's. 
You  leave  it  alone,  like  a  wise  woman.  Time  enough  for 
you  to  take  a  hand  in  it  when  you're  asked  to  do  SO. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  163 

So  like  as  not,  after  he've  digested  this  smack  in  the 
face,  Master  Timothy  will  look  round  and  see  worldly 
wisdom  and  come  to  you  after  all." 

Audrey  was  indignant. 

"  I  hate  you  old  creatures !  "  she  said.  "  You're  all  so 
mean  and  nasty  and  frozen  at  heart.  You  and  father  and 
Lot  Snow  —  not  a  pin  to  choose.  And  if  Timothy  was 
to  want  me  now,  and  go  on  his  knees  and  pray  to  me  to 
take  him,  I  wouldn't.  I'll  shake  you  all  up  yet !  'Twill 
be  a  joy  and  pleasure  to  make  you  all  sick  and  horror- 
stricken,  and  set  you  all  crying  out  for  shame  and  terror 
at  me.  And  I  will,  too!  I'm  in  love  with  a  married 
man  at  present  —  a  proper  chap,  whose  wife  don't  under- 
stand him  or  know  her  luck," 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Don't  you  talk  like  that,  Audrey  Leaman,  or  I  shall 
tell  your  father,  and  give  him  a  warning  to  shut  you  up 
on  bread  and  water  for  a  bit.  You  young  people  of 
this  generation  be  a  proper  handful ;  and  the  next  will 
be  worse,  by  the  look  of  it  —  and  all  on  account  of  higher 
education,  no  doubt,  They'm  teaching  the  young  an 
amazing  lot  of  things  now  —  almost  everything  you  can 
name,  in  fact,  but  decency  and  modesty  and  manners  and 
self-control  and  common-sense.  Us  shan't  want  them, 
I  suppose,  very  much  longer." 


CHAPTER  V 

On  an  evening  in  August  the  sudden  departure  of  Timo- 
thy Snow  and  his  mother  from  Yarner  made  matter  for 
Hvely  conversation  at  "  The  Coach  and  Horses."  Men 
of  active  mind  developed  theories  concerning  it,  while 
those  without  imagination  were  content  to  listen  and  ap- 
plaud their  more  acute  neighbours. 

A  party  discussed  the  matter  at  the  hour  of  evening 
drinking,  and  Frederick  Moyle  indulged  in  some  veno- 
mous laughter  at  Snow's  expense.  He  rejoiced  openly 
before  the  downfall  of  his  enemy's  hopes  and  ambitions. 

"  A  facer  for  him!  "  he  declared;  "  and  well  may  the 
puffed-up  fool  hide  his  silly  head.  'Twas  pretty  well 
certain  to  happen,  for  no  sensible  girl  could  have  stood 
such  a  man  for  ever.  No  doubt  she  began  to  grow  sick 
of  his  vanity,  and  saw  through  him,  and  flung  him  over. 
And  then,  being  proud  as  Satan,  he  wouldn't  stand  the 
laugh  he'd  have  to  face  for  being  too  weak  to  keep 
her;  and  so  away  he  ran,  like  a  cur  with  his  tail  be- 
tween his  legs,  and  his  mother  spreading  her  apron  to 
hide  him." 

"  You're  too  acid,  Frederick,"  answered  Seth  Campion, 
who  drank  at  the  policeman's  elbow.  "  It  don't  become 
you  to  say  these  things,  because  we  all  know  you  bear 
the  man  a  grudge.  Ban't  a  very  brave  deed  to  laugh  at 
his  trouble  like  that.  You  be  glad  to  see  Fate  hit  him 
down ;  but  you  hadn't  the  pluck  to  hit  him  down  your- 
self." 

"  You  wait,"  answered  Moyle.  "  You  wait,  old  chap. 
I've  not  done  with  Master  Timothy.  My  turn  will  come ; 
and  meantime  I  won't  pretend  I'm  sorry  he's  had  this 
hard  knock.  I'm  glad,  for  he  deserves  it,  the  stuck-up, 
blustering  bully." 

164 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  165 

Frederick's  eyes  flashed,  and  Mr.  Blackaller,  from  be- 
hind the  connter,  laughed  at  him. 

"  You  be  givin.g  yourself  away,  policeman,"  he  said, 
"  and  showing  up  afore  these  people  as  a  silly  creature 
full  of  spite,  and  not  fit  to  stand  for  law  and  order.  Of 
all  men  you  ought  first  to  keep  your  temper,  yet,  because 
this  Timothy  Snow  very  properly  sent  you  packing  out 
of  Yarner,  where  you  hadn't  any  business,  and  gave  you 
a  clip  under  the  ear  at  the  same  time  to  hurry  you  along, 
you  let  it  breed  and  fester  and  foul  your  mind,  and  you 
wish  him  evil,  and  be  glad  he's  in  trouble.  You  cut  a 
very  poor  figure,  Frederick,  I  assure  you ;  and  if  you  was 
a  sensible  man,  you'd  have  been  the  first  to  hush  up 
that  bit  of  work,  and  let  the  laugh  against  you  die. 
But  by  keeping  up  your  hate  against  Snow,  you  keep 
up  our  memory  of  the  reason,  and  that's  a  silly  thing  to 
do." 

Mr.  Moyle  scowled  and  reddened  under  this  rebuke. 

"  I  come  here  for  beer,"  he  said,  "  not  advice  from 
you,  Ned  Blackaller ;  and  when  I  want  your  opinion  of 
my  character  Ell  ask  for  it.  The  man  insulted  me  shame- 
ful without  a  cause ;  and  Fll  have  my  vengeance  yet  if 
I've  got  to  wait  a  month  of  Sundays  for  it,  and  if  you 
don't  like  what  I  say  against  him,  you  needn't  listen.  I 
wasn't  talking  to  you,  whether  or  no." 

"  You're  out  —  out  every  way,  Frederick,"  answered 
Blackaller  quietly.  "  What's  come  between  these  young 
people  we  don't  know,  and  what's  made  the  girl  change 
her  mind  we  don't  know ;  but  'tis  a  very  sad  thing  for 
them  both,  and  it  don't  become  a  decent  man  to  delight 
in  it,  whatever  he  may  think.  I  trust  that  Snow  will 
show  his  sense,  and  do  nothing  rash  or  foolish.  He's  not 
a  man  to  crumple  up  under  trouble." 

"  That  he's  not,"  said  Seth  Campion.  "  A  chap  very 
well  able  to  look  after  himself,  and  his  mother  the  same. 
They'll  be  found  to  be  all  right.  He  know^s  his  worth. 
He'll  soon  get  more  work." 

Amos  Kingdon,  with  a  woodman  from  Yarner  named 


t66  the  forest  ON  THE  HILL 

Butt,  entered  at  this  moment,  and  Campion  addressed 
the  keeper. 

"  I'm  saying  that  Timothy  Snow's  not  the  sort  of  man 
to  go  begging,  neighbour.  He's  left  you,  but  he'll  very 
soon  find  another  job,  if  he  haven't  already  done  so." 

"  'Tis  a  rising  mystery,"  answered  the  newcomer,  "  and 
me  and  Saul  Butt,  here,  was  telling  about  it  all  down 
the  road.  The  girl's  gone  now  —  Drusilla  Whyddon,  I 
mean.  I  called  but  this  morning  to  know  if  I  could 
help  her  any  way,  and  to  hear  when  she  meant  to  leave 
the  cottage ;  but  'twas  empty  —  all  neat  and  tidy  and 
empty.     And  something  tells  me  she  won't  come  back." 

"  And  we  met  Miss  Leaman  on  the  way  hither,"  said 
Butt,  "  and  Mr.  Kingdon  told  her,  and  asked  if  she 
knowed  anything  about  the  girl,  but  she  did  not." 

"  'Tis  easy  to  read  that,  I  reckon,"  said  the  innkeeper ; 
"  and  I'm  glad  to  know  what  you  say,  because  to  me  it 
looks  as  if  her  and  Snow  had  made  it  up.  Next  thing 
we  shall  hear  will  be  they're  married,  and  he's  got  work 
well  out  of  reach  of  this  neighbourhood." 

"  He  may  try,  but  he  won't  get  out  o'  reach  of  his 
uncle,"  said  Moyle.  "  'Twill  be  all  up  with  Timothy's 
future  if  he  does  it.  Lot  Snow  had  his  ideas,  and  if  the 
man  don't  fall  in  with  them  — " 

"  He's  shown  clear  enough  he  won't,"  answered  Black- 
aller,  "  and  Mr.  Snow  has  seen  it.  I  met  him  two  days 
agone,  and  he  was  troubled.  I  didn't  dare  to  name  the 
thing,  for  he's  not  the  sort  of  man  that  asks  for  friend- 
ship, or  ofifers  it ;  but  I  could  see  there  was  a  deal  of 
worry  in  his  mind.  He  was  short,  and  full  of  his 
private  affairs." 

"  Mr.  Leaman's  not  so  silent,  however,"  said  Campion. 
"  He  trusts  me  a  good  bit ;  and  when  'twas  known  far 
and  wide  that  the  under-keeper  to  Yarner  was  off,  Willes 
Leaman  confided  to  me  that  it  looked  as  if  the  careful 
plans  of  Mr.  Snow  and  himself  were  coming  to  nought. 
I  said  I  thought  so,  too ;  and  now  if  Drusilla  Whyddon 
have  cut  her  hook  also,  no  doubt  'tis  all  up,  and  the 
young  pair  will  triumph." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  167 

"  Triumph  and  be  cut  off  with  a  shilling,"  said  Moyle ; 
"  and  if  what  you  say  is  true,  Kingdon,  then  you  may 
swear  the  whole  row  between  her  and  him  was  a  plant. 
They  pretended  to  quarrel,  to  throw  everybody  off  the 
scent,  and  make  they  two  old  men  think  'twas  all  coming 
right,  and  Timothy  Snow  would  begin  running  after 
Audrey  Leaman.  But  in  secret  they  was  friendly,  and 
meant  marrying  so  soon  as  Jenny  Widger  died.  And 
that's  how  you'll  find  it  comes  out." 

"  And  very  sorry  you'll  be  to  think  of  'em  happy  in 
each  other's  arms,  won't  you,  Fred  ?  "  asked  Butt,  the 
woodman. 

"  Yes,  I  shall.  I  don't  mean  that  man  to  have  any  fun 
I  can  prevent.  My  turn's  coming,  Saul  Butt.  I  don't 
forget,     ril  get  my  knife  into  him  yet." 

"  Yes  —  into  his  back,  I  expect,"  said  the  woodman. 
"  You  haven't  got  the  pluck  to  face  him  —  more  had  any 
other  chap  about  here.  However,  he's  gone  now,  and 
won't  come  back,  I  reckon." 

Amos  Kingdon  drank,  and  considered  Moyle's  theory 
of  the  event. 

"  I  doubt  you'm  wrong,"  he  said.  "  Ess,  I  feel  pretty 
sure  you'm  wrong,  Frederick.  A  policeman's  opinion  be 
worth  weighing,  since  'tis  his  business  to  put  two  and 
two  together  in  the  affairs  of  the  neighbours,  and  help 
them  to  bide  in  peace  and  order ;  but  your  two  and  two  — 
No  —  I  saw  the  girl  but  a  few  days  since  and  spoke  with 
her,  and  she  weren't  acting  or  pretending.  She  was 
flattened  out  and  broken-hearted  and  properly  wisht,  with 
scarce  a  word  to  throw  at  a  dog,  as  the  saying  is.  She 
didn't  know  what  she  was  going  to  do,  and  she  didn't 
care.  You  couldn't  mistake  her  low  spirits  and  hopeless 
voice.     She  envied  Jenny  Widger  the  grave." 

They  discussed  the  matter  with  interest,  and  Mr.  King- 
don found  himself  alone  in  the  opinion  that  Drusilla  had 
not  joined  Timothy  and  his  mother. 

Then  Campion  opened  another  channel  of  interest,  and 
declared  that  Lot  Snow  knew  perfectly  well  where  his 
nephew  was  gone. 


i68  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  Old  Lot  was  in  along  with  my  master  but  yester- 
night, and  Miss  Leaman  sat  along  with  'em,  and  me  and 
her  be  very  good  friends  because  I  mind  her  gert  dog 
for  her ;  and,  after  Mr.  Snow  went  off,  she  spoke  to  me, 
and  I  made  bold  to  ax  if  there  was  anything  fresh  in 
the  wind.  Then  she  told  me  that  she'd  heard  a  bit  and 
guessed  still  more.  And  she  certainly  thought  from 
what  Mr.  Snow  had  said,  before  they  told  her  to  clear 
out,  that  the  old  man  knew  where  his  nephew  was.  Of 
course  you  can  find  anybody,  however  close  they  hide, 
if  you  pay  enough  to  the  searchers." 

"  Did  Mr.  Snow  say  anything  as  to  Drusilla,  I  won- 
der?" asked  Blackaller.  "I've  got  a  feeling,  somehow, 
that  we  might  find  he  knows  a  lot  more  about  it  all  than 
any  of  us  dreams." 

"  So  far  as  Miss  Audrey  spoke  to  me,  Drusilla's  name 
was  not  named,"  answered  Campion.  "  Of  course  she 
had  not  vanished  away  then,  and  nobody  knowed  any 
more  about  her  than  that  she'd  changed  her  mind  and 
thrown  over  Mr.  Snow's  nephew.  But  now  that  the  girl's 
gone  too,  and  left  all  her  sticks  in  the  cottage,  no  doubt 
'twill  all  come  out  and  the  truth  be  known." 

Meanwhile  at  Middlecot  the  news  had  reached  other 
ears,  and  Willes  Leaman  started  in  the  still  evening  hour 
from  his  farm  to  see  Lot  Snow.  For  Audrey,  upon 
hearing  from  Kingdon  that  Drusilla  had  disappeared, 
hastened  home  with  the  news,  and  Mr.  Leaman  thought 
that  Timothy's  uncle  should  hear  it  as  soon  as  possible. 
It  transpired  that  Lot  had  something  to  tell  him  also. 
Mr.  Snow  bade  his  sister  draw  a  quart  of  ale  on  Leaman's 
arrival,  and  then  he  began  to  talk. 

"  I'm  better,  thank  you.  No  doubt  you  meant  to  ask 
about  my  health  first,  so  you  can  know  the  answer,  and 
I'll  take  your  good  wishes  for  granted.  There's  a  bit  of 
news.  I've  found  out  where  that  lunatic  nephew  of  mine 
have  got  to.  Not  far  off,  neither.  I  suppose  as  I'd  bet- 
ter ride  over  and  talk  to  him ;  and  yet,  seeing  that  he 
has  given  us  this  taste  of  his  quality,  I'm  in  two  minds 
to  throw  him  over  once  for  all.     He's  not  the  only  man 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  169 

in  the  world,  and  I'm  under  no  compulsion  to  make  him 
my  heir." 

"Where  is  he?" 

"  He's  at  Drewsteignton  for  the  minute,  along  with  his 
mother.  That  girl  —  worth  fifty  of  him  after  all,  I 
reckon  —  that  Drusilla  Whyddon  gave  him  up  because, 
no  doubt,  looking  on  ahead,  she  couldn't  see  life  unfold- 
ing very  suent  along  with  him.  And  the  result  is  that 
he's  lost  his  self-control  and  bitched  up  his  life  like  this." 

"  I  did  think  when  she  chucked  him,  the  cards  were 
going  to  favour  us,"  said  Leaman ;  "  but  I'm  with  you 
now :  we  shan't  get  that  man  for  my  daughter,  and  so  I 
feel  no  more  interest  in  the  matter.  At  Drewsteignton 
—  eh  ?  What  a  puzzle  'tis  that  my  girl  —  with  a  string 
of  men  so  long  as  the  tail  of  a  kite  always  running  after 
her  —  couldn't  take  his  fancy.  Yet  one  can't  let  hope 
die  very  easy.  Perhaps  'tis  worth  one  more  try.  'Tis 
very  well  talking  about  another  man :  where  be  you  going 
to  pick  up  a  chap  clever  enough  and  sound  enough  to  be 
your  heir  and  mine?  If  you  liked  him,  no  doubt  I 
should ;  but  'tis  any  odds  against  Audrey  doing  the  same." 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  Audrey  be  a  very  clever  woman 
indeed,  and  I  think  the  world  of  her,  and  if  I  was  forty 
instead  of  over  sixty  I'd  marry  her  myself." 

"  I  believe  she'd  marry  you  now,"  declared  the  father ; 
"  and  then,  if  you  was  to  rise  up  a  son,  it  might  be  all 
right  yet." 

"  No  doubt  she'd  marry  me.  'Twould  suit  her  down 
to  the  ground,  a  clever  creature  that  she  is !  "  declared 
Lot,  smiling  at  the  idea.  "  I  could  marry  her,  but  could 
I  manage  her?  And  would  the  fine  boy  when  he  comed 
along  take  after  me,  or  that  curly-headed  policeman  I 
see  along  with  her  sometimes,  or  Sir  Percy  Champer- 
nowne's  young  grandson,  or  some  other  Tom,  Dick,  or 
Harry?  No,  no  —  your  fine  Audrey  wants  something 
very  different  from  me.  She's  too  fond  of  change  of 
air  to  suit  an  old  blade  so  rusty  in  the  scabbard  as  I  be. 
A  dear,  beautiful  love-hunter  she'll  be  —  mark  me!  " 

Mr.  Leaman  was  annoyed. 


I70  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  You  oughn't  to  talk  like  that,  Snow.  She's  no  love- 
hunter  but  a  very  high-minded  girl,  and  straight  as  a 
line." 

"  So  she  is,"  added  the  other.  "  Straight  as  a  line  — 
her  own  line ;  and  that  she'll  always  take.  She's  got  a 
spirit  above  law  and  order;  and  I  hoped  that  Timothy 
would  have  broke  that  spirit  and  contented  her  presently. 
But  now  —  well,  the  question  is,  as  you  say,  whether  I 
shall  see  the  man,  or  alter  my  will  and  forget  him." 

"  I  came  up  with  news,"  said  Leaman,  "  and  you  may 
as  well  hear  it.  That  girl  who  chucked  him  has  left  Yar- 
ner,  and  nobody  knows  where  she  has  gone,  though  every- 
body thinks  they  know.  'Tis  pretty  generally  held  that 
she's  changed  her  mind  and  gone  back  to  him,  and  that 
he's  forgiven  her  and  made  it  up." 

"  Ah !  So  much  for  my  trouble,  then.  But  I  doubt  it. 
Yes,  I  doubt  that  a  good  bit  —  knowing  the  girl.  A  very 
strong,  sensible  girl,  and  religious,  and  a  promising  wife 
for  somebody.  If  she's  gone,  I  doubt  whether  'tis  to  him. 
It  may  be  to  Redstone,  who  wanted  her  when  he  was 
gamekeeper.  I  wouldn't  have  no  harm  come  to  her,  any- 
way. No  —  she  didn't  go  back,  if  I  know  her  character. 
There  —  say  no  more  —  I'm  sick  of  the  subject,  and  won't 
hear  another  word  upon  it  to-night." 

"  You'll  see  your  nephew,  however  ?  " 

"  I  may,  or  I  may  not.  Nought's  ever  bothered  me  like 
this  before,  and  'tis  a  dirty  trick  of  chance  to  send  me 
for  my  own  nephew,  and  my  only  one,  the  first  man  ever 
I  met  I  couldn't  get  round  to  my  way  of  thinking  about 
things." 

"  If  he's  had  his  dose  and  starts  to  bide  single  and 
keeps  so  for  a  good  bit,  he  might  then  begin  to  see  which 
side  his  bread  was  buttered.  As  he  gets  older  he'll  take 
more  thought  for  cash  and  comfort  like  all  men,"  sug- 
gested Leaman. 

"  True,  he  might,  and  no  doubt  he  will.  But  —  no,  no, 
no  more  of  it.  Drink  and  change  the  subject.  There's 
Dury  Farm  —  I  shall  have  that  in  a  minute  now. 
Another  plan  foiled,  I  suppose." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  171 

"  You'll  be  wise  to  let  Redstone  stop  there  and  go  on 
with  it." 

"  I  hear  the  fool  be  going  to  make  me  a  money  offer 
to  let  him  off." 

"  Yes,  he  is  —  sold  his  sheep  for  it." 

"  Might  have  saved  his  trouble.  I  don't  go  down  no 
more  —  least  of  all  in  that  quarter.  When  our  own 
flesh  and  blood  have  hit  us  so  hard  as  Timothy  Snow 
have  hit  me,  and  played  the  fool  with  high  prospects 
and  run  against  all  good  sense  and  wisdom,  'tis  difficult 
to  be  patient." 

The  old  man,  seduced  from  his  usual  secretive  and 
saturnine  outlook  on  life  by  recent  physical  suffering, 
grumbled  on,  and  indeed  began  to  bore  Mr.  Leaman 
somewhat.  His  admiration  for  Lot  Snow  and  absolute 
trust  in  the  farmer  diminished  a  little.  He  felt  impatient 
to  see  the  other  so  lacking  in  resource.  It  occurred  to 
him  that  he  might  take  the  initiative  henceforth,  because 
he  continued  much  to  desire  this  match  and  did  not  re- 
gard the  case  as  hopeless.  He  believed  that  at  the  bottom 
of  her  heart  Audrey  still  desired  to  wed  Timothy  Snow, 
and  felt  that  if  indeed  Drusilla  had  not  returned  to  him, 
there  was  still  a  possibility  of  his  being  won  to  wisdom 
by  way  of  obedience  to  his  elders. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  mystery  of  Timothy  Snow's  disappearance  was  not 
protracted,  and  his  intentions  soon  became  publicly 
known.  He  designed  to  leave  England,  and  his  mother 
was  to  go  with  him.  The  decision  had  been  come  to 
swiftly,  and  their  goods  were  already  sold. 

Snow's  hasty  action  was  the  nervous  response  to  his 
disappointment.  He  strove  to  keep  Drusilla's  unreason 
and  cruelty  before  his  eyes  and  lessen  in  that  light  the 
grief  of  losing  her.  He  endeavoured  as  much  as  possible 
to  dwell  upon  her  callous  indifference  to  his  sorrow ;  he 
created  a  mental  picture  of  her  unstable  character,  and 
laboured  to  believe  that  he  had  escaped  a  danger.  But 
he  could  not  thus  deceive  himself  for  long,  and  at  times, 
in  the  high  light  of  a  fierce  agony  that  kept  him  sleepless, 
the  past  unfolded  before  him,  and  he  remembered  her 
sentiments,  her  gentleness,  her  thousand  little  revelations 
of  devotion  and  love. 

Then  came  a  rumour  to  his  ear  that  John  Redstone, 
Drusilla's  former  flame,  might  tell  him  more  about  the 
truth  if  he  would.  Snow  learned  at  a  breath  of  Drusilla's 
disappearance  and  the  new  theory  of  it.  He  strove  to 
believe,  but  did  not  succeed  easily.  He  ransacked  his 
memory  with  respect  to  the  things  that  his  betrothed  had 
said  of  Redstone,  and  recollected  that  she  always  spoke 
of  him  with  kindness,  and  had  expressed  lively  sorrow 
that  she  had  been  called  upon  to  make  him  sad.  Snow 
dwelt  upon  this  memory,  and  began  to  suspect  that  pity 
had  ripened  into  a  warmer  emotion.  He  was  subtle  in  his 
reasoning,  and  guessed  that  there  had  appeared  in  him- 
self certain  qualities  to  distract  Drusilla ;  that  the  better 
she  understood  him,  the  more  she  began  to  doubt  whether 
he  would  make  the  husband  she  desired.     He  imagined 

172 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  173 

her  contrasting  him  with  John  Redstone,  and  his  imagina- 
tion, in  some  sort  quickened  by  his  trouble,  was  modest 
and  even  humble  before  the  idea.  He  conceived  that 
Redstone,  perhaps,  possessed  qualities  that  had  been 
overlooked  by  Drusilla  until  now,  and  that,  seen  in  the 
light  of  his  own  overbearing  and  dominant  nature,  the 
other  man  appeared  to  an  advantage  not  appreciated  be- 
fore. 

Snow's  lonely  life  and  natural  pride  had  prevented 
him  from  instituting  comparisons  between  himself  and 
others  until  his  betrothal,  and  then  arose  a  subconscious 
comparison  between  himself  and  Redstone  which  rather 
tended  to  elate  him.  It  had  arisen  after  his  meeting  with 
Redstone,  when  a  decided  attraction  towards  the  other 
had  awakened  in  him.  He  had  seen  himself  the  stronger, 
abler,  wiser;  but  he  had  regarded  John  Redstone  as 
likely  to  be  an  excellent  friend  and  admirer.  He  thought 
of  himself  as  leader,  John  as  disciple,  and  a  vague  pleas- 
ure permeated  his  mind  before  the  fancy.  Now,  how- 
ever, the  comparison  cast  him  down,  and  its  illumination 
Avas  darkness  to  his  spirit.  He  was  not  jealous,  since  his 
nature  scarcely  admitted  the  emotion  of  jealousy.  He 
had  ceased  to  desire  Drusilla  because  he  was  now  con- 
vinced that  she  did  not  desire  him  ;  but  the  deepest  in- 
terest of  his  soul  still  revolved  about  her,  and  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  he  restrained  an  inclination  to  visit 
Redstone  and  satisfy  himself  upon  these  many  doubts  be- 
fore departure.  But  chance  willed  that  accident  brought 
the  men  together,  and  then  Snow  learned  that  he  was 
mistaken. 

Timothy  met  the  master  of  Dury  upon  the  Moor,  while 
he  rode  from  Drewsteignton  to  take  leave  of  a  friend  a 
week  before  departure,  and  it  was  Redstone  who  stopped 
him  and  opened  the  conversation. 

"  Lucky  we  met,"  said  John,  "  and  I'll  go  beside  you  a 
bit  if  you  please,  for  I've  been  wanting  a  few  words 
with  you  terrible  bad.  You  was  very  civil  and  kind  to 
me  a  bit  ago,  and  didn't  know  at  the  time  I  hated  you 
like  hell  for  getting  what  I'd  tried  to  get  and  failed  —  I 


174  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

mean  Drusilla  Whyddon.  But  now  —  if  you'll  excuse 
me  for  touching  such  a  tender  subject  —  now  all  that 
cared  for  her,  and  a  many  did,  be  in  trouble,  because 
there's  a  doubt  and  a  darkness  hanging  over  her  afifairs. 
First  we  heard  that  —  that  you  and  she  wasn't  tokened 
no  more ;  and  then  we  heard  that  she'd  made  it  up  and 
that  she  was  gone  back  to  you ;  and  then  we  heard  you 
was  off  to  foreign  parts,  and  yet  no  mention  of  her. 
And,  taking  one  thing  with  another  and  feeling  what  Fve 
felt  for  her  in  the  past,  Fve  been  a  lot  put  about  by  it, 
and  should  have  sought  you  if  Fd  known  where  to  find 
you." 

He  ceased,  and  Timothy  stared  at  him.  In  half  a 
dozen  short  sentences  John  had  destroyed  the  whole 
fabric  of  his  theories,  and  made  it  clear  that  he  knew  as 
little  of  Drusilla's  movements  as  Snow  himself. 

His  pride  whispered  silence,  but  it  had  been  much 
shaken  and  weakened  of  late,  and  his  nerve,  unknown 
to  himself,  was  about  to  betray  him.  He  had  fallen  from 
his  resolute  and  aloof  attitude ;  he  even  displayed  a 
shadow  of  diflfidence.  Each  man  felt  too  much  in  earnest 
seriously  to  examine  the  attitude  and  bearing  of  the  other. 
For  a  moment,  as  they  talked  together,  neither  was 
armed.  They  spoke  as  understanding  friends  faced 
with  a  common  care. 

"  D'you  mean  you  know  nothing  of  her?  D'you  mean 
that  since  she  left  Yarner,  five  days  ago,  you've  had  no 
news  of  her?  " 

"  Why  should  I  ? "  asked  Redstone.  "  I  won't  de- 
ceive you,  and  wouldn't  if  I  could.  I  was  terrible  fond 
of  her,  and  got  pretty  well  knocked  out  when  she  had 
to  chuck  me.  We  was  so  very  nearly  of  a  mind,  you 
see,  that  it  made  it  worse.  She  took  me  as  near  as 
damn  it,  you  might  say.  We  saw  alike  in  a  lot  of  things, 
and  she  knew,  and  never  denied  it,  that  Fd  make  her  a 
good  husband.  But  just  the  spark  to  catch  all  on  light 
wasn't  in  her,  and  she  wouldn't  marry  me.  Then  you 
come  along  and  got  her.  But,  though  she  wasn't  for 
me,  I  couldn't  but  love  her  all  the  same;  and  I  always 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  175 

shall  do  so  —  through  thick  and  thin,  Timothy  Snow, 
because  I'm  built  that  way.  I  was  terrible  interested 
to  hear  you  had  fallen  out,  and  I  won't  say  but  I  might 
have  felt  a  shadow  of  hope  in  me  again.  But  'twasn't 
for  me  to  come  forward  at  such  a  ticklish  time,  and  I 
didn't.  And  when  you  ax  me  if  I  know  anything  of 
her,  I  say  I  don't.  I  see'd  her  at  her  aunt's  funeral,  and 
that's  the  last  time  I  did." 

The  other  made  a  confession. 

"  I  wish  to  God  we'd  met  sooner,  then,  for  this  is  a 
very  serious  thing  you  tell  me.  I  can  trust  you.  'Tis 
like  this :  she  threw  me  over.  No  reasons  —  wouldn't 
give  'em,  though  I  fought  for  'em  as  hard  as  a  man  can 
fight  a  woman.  She  wouldn't  give  'em,  and  in  shame 
I  could  ask  no  more.  I  stooped  as  never  I  thought  I 
could  stoop ;  but  'twas  useless.  And  then  I  left  Yarner, 
because  this  thing  has  knocked  the  bottom  out  of  my 
life  for  the  minute.  But  I'm  getting  all  right  now.  I'm 
glad  she  found  out  that  she'd  got  no  use  for  me  before 
it  was  too  late ;  and  I  reckon  the  reason  was  that  my 
character  turned  out  different  from  what  she  hoped. 
And  then  it  struck  me  as  likely  enough  she'd  turned 
back  to  you." 

"  She  never  came  to  me,  and  I  know  nothing  of  her. 
In  my  turn  I  thought,  and  a  good  many  others  thought 
the  same,  that  you'd  made  it  up,  and  that  she'd  gone 
back  to  you  secretly,  and  that  the  next  thing  we  should 
hear  was  you  were  wedded." 

Silence  fell  then  between  the  men.  Each  pursued  his 
own  reflections,  and  each  became  self-conscious  before 
the  other.  The  interest  that  had  existed,  while  there  was 
a  possibility  that  one  or  other  had  won  back  Drusilla, 
now  shifted  when  they  discovered  that  neither  had  done 
so.  But  whereas  hope  wakened  in  the  younger  man's 
breast,  Timothy  felt  none.  His  uncertainty  respecting 
Drusilla  was  not  vital  to  himself.  Indeed  for  the  mo- 
ment he  cared  less  than  he  expected  to  care.  He  did  not 
feel  the  same  intense  interest  as  Redstone.  To  Snow  it 
mattered  not  much  where  Drusilla  was  gone  so  that  she 


176  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

was  gone  from  him ;  to  Redstone  it  signified  a  great  deal, 
because  Drusilla  must  now  be  free  again  and  lier  future 
absolutely  undetermined.  His  nature  made  him  always 
strive  to  clear  every  question  that  rose  between  himself 
and  his  fellow-man,  and  though  now  he  longed  to  be 
alone  with  his  thoughts,  he  would  not  leave  Timothy 
without  an  endeavour  explicitly  to  define  the  situation 
between  them. 

"  Let's  part  with  all  understood,  then,"  he  said.  "  I 
think  a  lot  of  you,  and  I  was  sorry  for  you  when  I 
heard  you  and  her  had  fallen  out,  because  I  knew  what 
I'd  been  through  myself,  and  could  see,  even  with  my 
weak  wits,  that  your  case  might  be  even  worse.  But 
how  is  it  now  ?  You  see,  where  there's  life  there's  hope, 
and  I  ban't  going  to  pretend  I  won't  have  another  dash 
at  her  if  she's  free  again.  You'll  excuse  my  open  speech, 
for  I  mean  no  disrespect  by  it.  Only  if  you  and  she 
be  out  once  for  all  —  then  I  shall  feel  I  ban't  doing  either 
of  you  any  wrong  if  I  come  forward  to  her  again. 
Things  look  better  with  me.  I  shall  see  your  uncle  come 
presently,  and  can  offer  him  a  very  tempting  dollop  of 
money  to  let  me  keep  Dury.  I've  made  great  sacrifices, 
and  I  do  think,  as  man  to  man,  he'll  be  just  and  fair  at 
the  last.  But  I  won't  trouble  you  with  my  affairs.  I'll 
only  ax  you,  respectful  and  straight,  if  'tis  all  over  be- 
tween you  and  her.  And  if  it  is  —  then  that's  where  I 
shall  try  again ;  and  if  it  isn't,  I  trust  you  be  as  honest 
as  me  and  tell  me  plain." 

Snow  reflected.  He  saw  the  glow  of  hope  and  the 
tension  and  excitement  of  this  possibility  transform  the 
other,  and  he  brooded  bitterly  upon  it.  But  it  was  hardly 
possible  to  resent  Redstone's  attitude. 

"  She  left  me  of  her  own  free  will.  She  dropped  me 
and  has  made  no  effort  to  explain,"  he  said.  "  Do  what 
you  please,  and  find  her  if  you  can.  I  have  no  right  to 
come  between  her  and  anybody." 

"  That's  sporting,  and  I  thank  you,"  answered  the 
other.  "  I  won't  forget  that.  I  owe  you  something  for 
that.     It  isn't  every  man  would  be  so  straight  at  such 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  177 

a  time.  And  I'll  be  as  straight.  If  I  get  to  her,  'tis 
like  enough  I'll  not  find  she  can  abide  me  any  more 
than  she  used  to.     And  if  I  find  as  she  wants  you  still  — " 

"  Stop!  "  said  the  other.  "  You  mean  well,  but  I  can't 
stand  no  more  of  this.  I'm  a  man  with  a  man's  pride 
and  passions.  I'll  have  no  go-between  between  Drusilla 
Whyddon  and  me  —  least  of  all  you.  You  mean  v/ell, 
but  you're  excited,  like  a  dog  that  sees  a  bone  where 
he  looked  for  nought,  and  you're  saying  things  you 
oughtn't  to  say.  If  you  find  her,  then  respect  me  and 
keep  my  name  off  your  lips.  I've  confided  in  you,  be- 
cause there  was  that  in  me  told  me  I  might.  We  shan't 
meet  no  more,  and  let  me  trust  you  to  do  nothing  nasty 
behind  my  back.  Never  you  breathe  my  name  to  her 
when  you  find  her,  and  never  you  let  her  breathe  mine 
to  you.  I  won't  suffer  it.  Why  she  chucked  me  is 
known  to  her,  and  none  else  on  God's  earth  that  I  can 
think  of.  And  if  anybody  is  to  know,  it  ought  to  be  me. 
But  the  time's  past.  You  understand  that.  I  was  in- 
terested to  hear  if  she'd  gone  back  to  you ;  now  I'm  not 
interested  in  anything  about  her.  I've  done  with  her  for 
evermore  now  —  for  evermore.  She's  tortured  twenty 
years  off  my  life,  and  I've  done  with  her.  But  don't 
you  probe  her  feelings  on  my  account,  or  seek  to  know 
her  reasons  for  leaving  me,  for  that  would  be  a  dirty 
trick,  and  I  should  hate  you  to  do  it.  You  play  for  your 
own  hand  and  win  her  if  you  want  her,  but  keep  me 
out ;  and  if  she  name's  my  name,  bid  her  be  silent.  Good- 
bye." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  the  other  shook  it. 

"  'Twould  be  a  fine  thing  to  be  so  brave  as  you,"  he 
said.  "  I'll  bear  in  mind  what  you've  spoken.  I'll  do 
nothing  that  ban't  honest  and  above-board." 

Snow  rode  away,  and  Redstone  dismissed  him  from 
his  mind  instantly.  The  position  with  respect  to  Timothy 
was  now  clear  enough.  He  would  soon  be  no  more  than 
a  memory,  and  John  resolved  to  respect  that  memory 
and  remember  all  that  Snow  had  said.  But  now  his 
thoughts  returned  to  Drusilla,  and  there  woke  in  him  a 


T78  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

passionate  longing  that  he  might  display  sufficient  strength 
and  power  of  service  at  this  crisis  in  her  life,  to  win  her. 

"  If  I  can't  get  her,  I  must  be  useful  to  her,"  he 
reflected;  and  that  idea  brought  the  immediate  future 
to  his  mind. 

"  Where  the  devil  be  she  got  to :  that's  the  first  ques- 
tion," he  said.     Then  he  began  to  fear  for  her. 

Meanwhile  Snow  went  on  his  way,  and  he,  too,  within 
the  space  of  five  minutes  of  leaving  Redstone,  asked 
himself  the  same  question.  He  could  not  banish  old 
memories  and  deep-rooted  emotions  in  a  moment,  for 
all  his  high  words  to  the  other.  He  declared  to  him- 
self that  henceforth  he  cared  nothing  for  the  future  of 
Drusilla,  but  none  the  less  there  now  woke  dread  that 
misfortune  had  overtaken  her.  For  her  sake  and  not 
his  own  he  went  perturbed  upon  his  way.  It  was  psycho- 
logically true  that  he  cared  far  less  for  her  now  that 
she  had  made  it  clear  she  cared  not  for  him;  but  it 
was  also  true  that  her  future  vitally  interested  him,  and 
that  he  could  not  patiently  regard  the  thought  of  leaving 
England  without  learning  what  had  befallen  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Now  did  Yarner  spread,  equipped  and  uncurled,  to  her 
last  expression  of  splendour.  She  was  fully  decked,  and 
offered  a  wondrous  canvas  for  the  painting  of  light  and 
darkness,  twilight  and  dawn.  Her  barriers  and  planes 
of  foliage  allured  the  sun  and  moon ;  at  her  covert  edges 
the  leafy  shields  of  the  woods  were  grown  almost  im- 
penetrable where  they  fell  and  feathered  with  many  a 
pensile  bough  to  shroud  the  regions  within.  Light 
homed  still  under  the  trees,  as  it  had  done  in  spring  and 
winter ;  its  lances  and  banners  still  penetrated,  and  forced 
a  rain  of  August  gold  into  the  secret  places.  The  forest 
was  pervious  to  light  and  rain ;  the  fern  glades  basked 
and  exuded  a  hot  savour,  and  the  thing  now  so  solid  and 
lumpish  looked  down  upon  from  above,  was  in  truth  full 
of  sunshine  and  motion  and  music.  While  unlovely  to 
human  eye  gazing  from  afar ;  while  dwarfed  and  rounded 
into  heavy  contours  by  the  foliage ;  while  dull  and  unin- 
spired under  their  prevalent,  sulky  green,  the  woods 
viewed  from  within  were  pleasant  and  cool,  murmurous 
with  delicate  noises,  and  restful  to  the  spirit  of  man.  The 
fern  spread  shadowy  under  the  trees  and  basked  in  the 
light  of  clearings ;  it  brooded  in  slopes  and  planes ;  it 
laced  and  splashed  the  underwood  with  a  carpet  of 
chequered  brightness.  Beneath  it  trembled  little  yellow 
flowers,  the  malempyre  and  loose-strife  of  the  woods; 
while  where  the  brake  gave  way  to  heath  and  whortle, 
the  one  shone  with  a  rosy  inflorescence  and  the  other 
was  rich  in  small  black  fruit. 

The  forest  proceeded  with  its  cycle  of  phenomena  in 
punctual  procession  and  ordered  plan.  Everything  was 
happening  as  it  had  happened  before  and  would  happen 
again.     Those    inevitable    mischances    and   mishaps    on 

179 


t8o  'mi'    FOREST  OX  THP:  HILL 

which  were  founded  oUier  prosperities  and  successes  filled 
the  wood.  The  great  ants  lifted  their  mounds,  and  their 
larva;  were  food  for  birds ;  the  tattered  foliage  and 
stripped  bough  told  of  full-fed  grubs ;  the  ichneumon, 
poised  like  a  gold  bead  in  a  sunbeam,  meant  death  to 
the  caterpillar's  resurrection ;  the  briar's  incised  foliage 
told  of  a  carpenter  bee's  snug  home ;  the  scattered  plum- 
age of  a  red-breast  revealed  the  feeding  place  of  a  hawk ; 
from  unseen  corpses  death  struck  upon  the  nostrils ;  and 
everywhere,  under  the  silent  splendour  of  drowsy  days 
and  moonlit  nights,  the  battle  raged.  The  paramount 
instinct  to  preserve  life  at  any  cost  to  other  life  quickened 
every  activity,  and  swept  like  a  pulse,  like  a  fire,  like  a 
tide  through  the  veins  of  the  forest  to  keep  all  things 
in  healthy  sweetness  of  existence  and  progression. 

Yarner's  mystery  continued  impenetrable ;  its  beauty 
lay  alone  in  the  beholding  eye ;  its  very  quality  of  imper- 
sonality belonged  not  to  itself  but  the  appraising  mind. 
Fairly  enmeshed  and  engulfed  in  the  forest,  humanity 
proceeded  as  through  a  labyrinth  without  a  clue;  and 
only  by  a  simulated  sentiment  or  self-deception  could 
man  be  said  to  add  one  joy  or  modify  one  sorrow^  by 
intercourse  with  its  unsorrowing  and  joyless  entity. 

Knowledge  of  such  a  thing  dwells  outside  power  of 
words ;  the  meaning  must  be  missed  —  it  may  be  by  a 
hair's  breadth ;  it  may  be  absolutely,  owing  to  qualities 
beyond  attainment  of  human  reason  or  feeling.  Yet 
reason  and  feeling  both  hint  at  times  that  the  meaning 
lies  nearer  than  one  might  guess ;  that  indeed  it  may 
presently  flash  upon  some  human  spirit  as  a  whole,  in- 
stead of  fitfully  in  side-lights.  For  now-  the  meaning 
twinkles  across  our  darkness,  as  a  firefly  through  a 
southern  night :  only  to  be  withdrawn  in  the  moment 
that  it  is  perceived ;  but  the  unborn  may  probe  to  reasons, 
if  reasons  there  are. 

Among  the  recesses  of  Yarner  there  stole  the  secret, 
solitary  figure  of  Drusilla  Whyddon:  and  she  came  to 
die.    Circumstances  have  displayed  her  as  one  well  con- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  i8i 

tent  in  the  high  happiness  of  a  perfect  and  unclouded 
love.  But,  since  the  sudden  demand  put  upon  her  love, 
the  world  was  changed,  and  her  own  nature  declared 
itself.  It  proved  a  weak  one,  as  might  have  been  antici- 
pated from  certain  glimpses  already  observed  of  her 
character  and  unusual  imagination.  And  imagination  it 
was  that  now  dominated  her  mother-taught  conscience, 
made  light  of  her  religion,  and  declared  most  definitely 
that  for  her  was  only  an  alternative  between  her  lover 
and  death. 

She  stood  as  the  apotheosis  of  a  love  at  once  trium- 
phant and  defeated.  She  had  ensured  the  man's  welfare 
at  the  cost  of  her  own  destruction,  for  she  cared  not  to 
live  without  him.  Her  passion,  until  now  expressed 
peacefully,  since  the  course  of  love  had  run  so  smooth, 
was  none  the  less  fundamental.  It  had  swallowed  up  all 
other  interests  and  emotions  of  life ;  it  had  enveloped 
her  with  a  garment  of  pride  and  joy ;  it  had  embraced 
her  soul  and  lifted  her  into  an  upper  world  of  absolute 
contentment.  She  had  been  steeped  in  the  full  glory 
of  it,  and  earthly  life  became  thereby  transformed  into 
a  reality  above  all  former  dreams  of  heaven.  Like  sun- 
shine and  music  the  emotion  had  swept  over  her  unevent- 
ful, silent  days.  The  transformation  was  complete  and 
stupendous ;  the  hopes  and  anticipations  were  without 
measure ;  and  the  crushing  necessity  to  relinquish  all 
came  with  tragic  force.  For  its  highest  expression  love 
had  demanded  complete  surrender.  It  had  called  her 
to  yield  up  all  that  she  worshipped  in  the  man,  and  all 
that  she  hoped  for  from  him.  She  had  risen  to  the 
height,  denied  him,  dismissed  him  dumbly  raging  and  in 
ignorance  of  her  motives ;  and  now  she  was  empty,  ex- 
hausted, sick  of  existence  and  eager  to  live  no  more. 

The  struggle  to  shut  him  out  had  been  terrific,  and 
the  temptation  to  tell  him  her  reason  and  so  not  lose  his 
love,  had  been  very  great.  But  the  circumstances  of  the 
case  demanded  that  the  truth  should  not  reach  her  lover, 
and  she  concealed  the  truth  at  awful  cost  of  energy, 
nervous  power,  and  self-control.     Now  all  was  ended,  and 


t82  the  forest  on  THE  HILL 

her  strength  to  suffer  had  gone.  That  he  would  never 
know  she  had  died  for  him  was  once  a  grief  to  her;  but 
even  that  reflection  left  her  indifferent  now.  She  dragged 
her  body  into  the  untrodden  places  of  the  forest  and 
sorrowed  only  that  it  was  not  winter;  for  then  she  had 
passed  away  the  more  quickly. 

Her  strange  act  was  to  conceal  herself  in  the  woods 
beyond  possible  power  of  discovery.  Indeed,  until  the 
present  no  search  had  been  instituted,  because  the  few 
interested  in  Drusilla's  affairs  supposed  that  she  was  safe 
with  friends  and  would  presently  be  heard  of.  None 
troubled  about  her ;  and  she  meantime  deliberately  faced 
starvation. 

In  the  earlier  stages  of  her  suffering,  when  sleep  still 
served  her  by  night,  she  entered  upon  a  calenture  and 
excitation  of  mind  —  a  sort  of  fevered  inspiration  in 
which  she  fancied  that  she  saw  the  truth  of  all  things, 
and  imagined  that  delirium  was  revelation.  The  mani- 
festations of  the  forest  became  more  significant,  and  the 
phantasies  woven  of  incipient  starvation,  with  its  whirl- 
ing images  and  wild  scenery  of  dreams,  began  to  open  as 
it  seemed  to  her  into  the  ways  of  peace.  And  above 
all.  Death,  that  she  had  dreaded  and  recoiled  from, 
when  he  met  her  senses  through  sight  or  stench,  now  lost 
his  terrors  and  stalked  friendly  by  her  side.  He  was 
indeed  her  only  friend.  She  forgot  the  friends  that  she 
had,  and  did  not  remember  that  her  way  of  life  and 
generous  sympathies  for  suffering  had  raised  up  for  her 
many  friends ;  she  ignored  the  two  men  who  would  have 
saved  her  thankfully  at  cost,  if  need  be,  of  their  own 
existences.  Her  quailing  intellect  reduced  all  to  a  point, 
and  she  conceived  Death  as  a  creature  in  shape  of  man, 
a  being  not  uncomely,  who  was  watching  her  from  the 
brake  and  holt,  and  who,  under  some  still  night  of  stars, 
would  presently  steal  to  her  side  and  take  her  life  into 
iiis  keeping.  She  thought  little  of  any  future,  and  chose 
rather  to  hope  that  no  such  thing  existed.  She  remem- 
bered Timothy's  doubts  upon  the  question,  and  trusted 
that  he  might  be  right :  because  all  that  for  which  she 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  183 

now  panted  was  dreamless  slumber  and  everlasting  sur- 
cease. 

She  found  the  outlet  of  an  audit  on  the  hillside  some 
distance  from  the  old  mine,  and  here  she  crept  by  day ; 
but  the  place  was  dark  and  foul.  It  dripped  with  water, 
and  ugly  insects  infested  it.  She  would  not  die  there, 
and  a  desire  came  to  her  to  pass  under  the  sunlight  in 
some  uplifted  place,  where  her  last  conscious  look  might 
be  upon  the  clouds.  She  knew  of  such  a  place,  and, 
waiting  until  nightfall  on  the  fourth  day  of  her  fast, 
she  crept  thither,  doubting  whether  she  still  had  strength 
to  scale  the  height  of  it.  Thus  far  she  had  drunk  of 
the  streams  of  the  wood ;  henceforth  she  would  drink  no 
more.  Her  design  was  to  reach  a  spot  from  which  it 
would  soon  be  impossible  for  her  to  descend. 

On  the  day  before  this  action  some  instinct  had  drawn 
her  to  the  gamekeeper's  "  larder  "  in  the  wood,  and  she 
sat  beneath  the  spot  where  vermin  were  crucified  upon 
a  board  between  two  trees.  Predatory  beasts  and  rap- 
torial birds  hung  here  —  the  lean  carcase  of  a  stoat  and 
three  weasels ;  the  rotting  shapes  of  hawks  and  magpies ; 
the  dishevelled  splendour  of  a  jay.  She  gazed  upon 
them,  envied  them  and  saw  no  horror  but  only  beauty 
in  the  revealed  framework  of  bones  and  pinions.  Some 
of  the  skeletons  were  stripped  by  time,  and  glistened 
through  the  rags  and  tatters  of  their  ruined  pelts  and 
plumage. 

This  place  was  much  secluded,  and  visited  but  seldom. 
Her  surprise,  therefore,  was  great  when  she  heard  some 
one  approaching.  Her  heart  stood  still,  her  spirit  sank, 
for  the  footfall  was  familiar,  and  she  knew  that  Snow 
stood  at  hand.  She  hid  where  brake  fern  grew  high 
beside  an  oak ;  she  crouched  low  and  held  her  breath  till 
the  sound  of  her  heart  beat  up  into  her  head  like  thunder. 
Then  he  came  out  into  the  space  beneath  the  gallows- 
tree  and  stood  there  not  twenty  yards  from  her. 

Had  consciousness  persisted  she  might  have  yielded 
and  approached  him,  but  it  did  not.  Chance  and  her 
own  condition  relieved  her  of  that  final  torture,  and  the 


i84  THE  FOREST  ON  TPIE  HILL 

tension  of  the  moment  quite  subdued  her.  She  fainted 
and  slipped  gently  down  into  the  fern,  silent  as  the  rain- 
drop or  the  wing  of  an  alighting  owl. 

The  man  knew  nothing  of  what  had  fallen  out  so  near 
him.  He  strode  here  and  there  uneasily  for  a  little 
while,  with  care  on  his  face;  then  he  went  away  to  seek 
elsewhere,  in  private  nooks  sacred  to  Drusilla,  for  some 
sign  or  token  of  her.  He  had  heard  that  none  knew 
where  she  could  be  found,  and,  suspecting  from  his 
knowledge  of  her  nature  that  she  might  still  be  in  her 
old  haunts,  he  was  come  secretly  to  search  for  her.  He 
had  forgiven  her,  and  explained  a  part  of  her  conduct. 
Much  of  her  past  morbidity  occurred  to  his  mind.  He 
remembered  puzzling  moods  and  strange  whims.  He 
recollected  her  peculiar  imagination  and  her  fancied  kin- 
ship with  the  forest;  and  he  guessed  that  she  must  be 
mad.  Given  this  awful  catastrophe,  he  believed  that  she 
might  wander  in  secret  until  she  died,  and  now  he  went 
here  and  there  through  the  woods  bracing  himself  to 
come  upon  her  dust. 

Since  this  conclusion,  that  she  was  no  longer  sane,  a 
deep  agony  of  sympathy  had  grown  up  in  Snow  for 
Drusilla.  Until  then  he  had  hated  her  for  deserting  him ; 
but  since  the  discovery  that  she  had  sought  no  other 
and  must  still  be  alone,  his  mind  was  changed  towards 
her,  and  not  the  least  part  of  his  suffering  centred  in  the 
recollection  that  he  had  misjudged  her.  For  his  pride 
there  was  a  sort  of  consolation  in  the  fancied  discovery 
that  madness  had  made  her  cease  to  love  him ;  but  for 
his  love  the  thought  of  this  tragedy  and  the  spectacle 
of  Drusilla  alone,  concealed,  with  her  brain  broken  and 
death  waiting  for  her,  made  the  man  frantic. 

He  had  come  to  Amos  Kingdon  and  explained  his  fear. 
He  had  then  searched  the  woods  without  avail.  This 
was  his  third  scrutiny.  One  more  day  he  designed  to 
devote  to  further  quest,  then  his  plans  required  that  he 
leave  England  for  ever.  Now  he  was  torn  in  half,  and 
dreaded  to  go   while  still   in  doubt  of  her  fate.     His 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  185 

agitation  and  misery  were  extreme,  and  his  self-control 
for  the  time  had  almost  deserted  him. 

Another  uncertain  duty  awaited  the  man  before  he 
departed.  He  felt  the  need  to  see  his  uncle  once  more, 
and  inform  him  that  he  was  about  to  leave  the  country. 
This  task  he  intended  to  postpone  until  the  day  before 
he  sailed. 

He  and  his  mother  would  leave  Plymouth  for  Canada 
within  a  week,  but  none  knew  it,  and  none  were  to  be 
told  save  only  Lot  Snow  and  his  sister. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

On  the  eastern  hills  of  Yarner,  at  the  edge  of  fir  planta- 
tions, and  beneath  a  great  heath  that  spread  to  the  hori- 
zon above,  there  stood  the  ruined  mine  in  a  wood  of 
silver  birch.  Fifty  years  before,  copper  had  been  sought 
and  found  here ;  but  the  enterprise  languished ;  the  mine 
was  deserted,  and  more  than  the  mournfulness  of  human 
failure  haunted  the  glen  and  ruin,  because  a  man  had 
hanged  himself  against  the  wall  of  a  roofless  chamber. 
For  years  his  bones  were  undiscovered,  then  a  truant 
boy,  climbing  for  jackdaw's  eggs,  came  across  the  litter 
of  the  carcase  under  a  rope's  end  that  still  swung 
above  it. 

The  place  stood  on  a  slope,  and  beneath  it  fell  ugly 
banks  of  ironstone,  that  half  a  century  had  failed  to 
hide.  These  mounds  persisted  ungainly,  and  defied  foot- 
hold to  all  green  things.  Round  about  fragments  of 
wrought  iron  and  rotten  timber  told  of  past  industry; 
but  the  wood  fast  returned  to  earth,  and  the  debris  of 
red  metal  was  rusted,  twisted,  fretted  by  the  teeth  of 
time.  The  spokes  and  splinters  thrust  out  of  the  under- 
growth and  stone,  like  fossil  skeletons  partially  denuded. 
At  hand  in  the  woods  the  main  shaft  had  been  sunk, 
but  it  was  now  choked  up  and  not  forty  feet  deep.  A 
litter  of  weed  and  rubbish  filled  the  bottom,  with  the 
white  bones  of  a  horse,  that  had  fallen  in  by  night  and 
perished  there.  The  chimney  still  stood  and  towered 
over  the  birches.  It  sprang  from  a  mass  of  masonry 
beneath,  and  stood  above  a  deep  pit,  where  floods  had 
laid  bare  the  foundations  until  it  seemed  that  the  huge 
mass  of  stone  and  brick  must  soon  topple.  It  frowned 
and  threatened,  and  promised  at  no  distant  date  to  crash 
upon  the  forest  slope  and  relieve  the  landscape  of  this 
unsightly  stack.     Surrounding  roofs,  that  had  covered 

186 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  187 

the  machinery,  were  rotten,  and  had  dropped  in  many 
places  so  that  the  grass-grown  floors  were  littered  with 
tiles  and  strewed  with  a  rib-work  of  rafters.  The  chim- 
ney towered  intact,  but  its  red  bricks  were  eaten  away, 
and  the  wind  had  crowned  it  with  dancing  feathers  of 
fern.  Over  the  pit  projected  two  great  masses  of  mor- 
tared stone,  like  the  fretted  paws  of  a  sphinx,  and  grass 
and  dandelions  covered  each  nook  and  cranny.  Great 
cracked  arches  opened  above,  and  fallen  walls  had  left 
a  splintered  jag  of  steps,  by  which  a  climber  might  ascend 
to  the  secret  chambers  aloft.  Here  nested  wild  birds, 
and  the  broken  floors  were  littered  with  rubbish  and  filth 
of  empty  nests.  The  birches  had  grown  all  round  the 
ruin,  and  rowan  and  hazel  found  harbour  in  its  walls. 
They  thrust  forth  from  the  stone-work,  and  beneath 
them  in  the  dark  places  lolled  out  the  tongues  of  ferns, 
trailed  wild  briars,  fruited  the  dog-rose  and  stole  the  ivy, 
with  silent  sure  fingers,  first  to  clothe  and  then  to  drag 
all  down. 

The  place  possessed  no  might  or  majesty.  It  spoke 
of  no  spiritual  catastrophe  or  downfall  of  the  great.  It 
shared  not  with  shattered  sanctuary  or  castle  the  power 
to  wake  emotion  before  the  spectacle  of  the  all-devouring. 
It  was  no  more  than  a  hideous  ruin  of  commercial  enter- 
prise. It  waited  only,  as  such  ruins  are  apt  to  wait,  for 
the  passing  of  the  generation  who  had  confided  in  it  and 
been  disappointed.  Then  it  promised  to  stablish  its  tot- 
tering foundations  anew  on  the  spirit  of  human  hope 
awakened  by  greed;  and  fresh  manipulators  would  once 
more  use  the  thing  to  charm  capital  from  new  adven- 
turers. 

Even  such  a  fate  now  dawned  for  the  sinister  ruin, 
and  Lot  Snow,  familiar  with  like  experiments  on  Dart- 
moor, and  aware  that  the  promoters  come  well  out  of 
such  enterprises,  though  the  shareholders  may  not,  had 
vague  ideas  of  seeking  power  to  float  a  small  company 
and  reopen  the  mine. 

Twice  in  secret  he  had  visited  the  place  —  and  now  he 
prepared  to  come  again.     It  was  his  way  to  kill  two  birds 


i88  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

with  one  stone  when  it  might  be  done.  He  had  therefore 
planned  to  meet  John  Redstone  at  a  spot  very  familiar 
to  the  former  gamekeeper;  and  he  hoped  to  win  more 
advantage  from  John  than  his  debtor  was  likely  to  win 
from  him.  Because  Redstone  knew  the  mine ;  he  could 
show  Lot  more  than  he  had  yet  seen,  and  possibly  ex- 
plain certain  things  that  the  elder  did  not  understand. 
Chance  thus  brought  three  people  —  a  woman  and  two 
men  —  into  contact ;  but  the  men  might  have  come  to- 
gether and  parted  again,  without  knowledge  that  another 
was  so  near,  had  not  accident  proclaimed  it  and  tangled 
two  lives  inextricably  from  that  moment  for  ever. 

For  hither  crept  Drusilla  Whyddon,  and  spent  her  fail- 
ing physical  forces  in  climbing  the  steps  furnished  by  the 
broken  walls.  At  risk  of  a  slip  and  instant  death  she 
made  to  the  summit,  and  crept  to  a  lofty  place  open  to 
the  sky,  where  none  would  ever  seek  her  or  dream  a 
girl  might  hide.  To  descend  was  soon  impossible  in  her 
condition.  She  sank  down  there,  and  for  a  time  became 
unconscious  after  the  effort  of  climbing.  Then  thirst  — 
slaked  till  now  —  awoke  keen  suffering,  and  she  perceived 
that  those  physical  agonies  she  had  supposed  at  an  end, 
were  yet  to  fall  upon  her.  For  a  long  night  she  endured 
torment  and  moaned  in  delirium.  With  morning  she 
had  grown  weaker,  and  at  evening  of  that  day  her  tor- 
ture was  somewhat  less.  For  many  hours  the  sun  beat 
upon  her  and  rendered  her  comatose.  Now  it  had  gone, 
and  she  was  conscious,  but  powerless  to  leave  the  place 
wherein  she  lay.  Her  mind  mirrored  her  body  after  her 
death.  She  thought  of  her  flesh  feeding  the  jackdaws 
that  kept  up  their  clink  and  clatter  round  about  her ;  she 
saw  her  hair  lining  the  nests  of  the  little  birds  when 
spring  should  come  again.  She  was  glad  to  be  dying 
here,  where  she  had  lived.  Her  thoughts  grew  very 
peaceful  before  the  sunset,  and  she  sank  toward  euthana- 
sia as  her  torments  waned. 

At  this  hour  it  was  that  John  Redstone  met  Lot  Snow 
in  the  forest.  The  younger  had  come  early,  had  tethered 
his  horse  beside  the  mine,  and  then  roamed  the  familiar 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  189 

wood  and  sought,  as  Timothy  Snow  had  sought,  among 
special  nooks  and  haunts  with  which  he  associated  Dru- 
silla.  He  was  perturbed  above  measure  at  her  loss,  and 
his  own  affairs  sank  to  small  importance  before  this  more 
serious  matter.  But  the  time  came  for  the  appointment. 
He  returned  to  the  mine,  and  Lot  Snow,  on  a  stout  pony, 
met  him  there.  He  had  been  standing  beside  Redstone's 
horse  for  five  minutes,  and  was  in  no  amiable  mood. 

"  I  hope  you  be  better,"  began  the  younger ;  "  'tis 
said  you've  been  sick  for  this  longful  time.  " 

"  Sick  ?  Ay,  enough  happening  to  make  any  sane 
man  sick.  The  ways  of  the  fools  —  the  ways  of  the 
fools  up  and  down  in  the  earth.  Lord !  how  they  swarm ! 
Where  was  you  when  I  came  up  ?  " 

"  Hunting  —  hunting  for  that  girl  —  her  as  meant  to 
marry  your  nephew  and  changed  her  mind." 

"  I've  just  come  from  speaking  with  the  idiot,"  said 
Lot.  "  God's  truth,  I  smarted  to  lay  my  hand  on  his  ear. 
Never  in  the  whole  course  of  my  life  did  I  meet  man  or 
woman  that  could  make  me  lose  my  temper  —  not  till 
to-day.  Pig-headed,  obstinate  wretch!  Just  because 
that  girl  threw  him  over,  he's  going  to  give  up  all  and 
leave  England.  Has  booked  his  passage,  and  no  power 
less  than  force  will  keep  him.  I've  talked  more  sense 
to  that  senseless  thing  and  wasted  more  words  upon  him 
than  ever  I  talked  or  wasted  afore.  And  now  he  may 
go  and  strew  his  bones  where  he  pleases,  I've  done 
with  him  for  ever  —  him  and  his  mother  also.  She  was 
a  canny  creature  once,  but  he's  ruined  her  —  as  often 
a  son  will  ruin  a  mother.  Now  you  may  show  me  about 
this  place.  I've  got  the  captain  of  a  mine  coming  up  to 
see  it  next  month,  and  I  want  to  know  what  you  can 
tell  me." 

"  There  was  a  chap  who  died  at  Manaton  a  bit  ago. 
He  worked  here  in  his  young  days,  when  the  mine  was 
going,"  answered  Redstone.  "  He'd  come  over  and  look 
at  it  now  and  again,  and  he  showed  me  how  it  all  went 
afore  it  tumbled  into  ruin.  A  busy  place,  and  very  near 
a  hundred  men  on   it  once,  above  ground  and  under. 


190  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

It  found  work  for  'em,  and  all  went  very  well  till  the 
shareholders  got  tired  of  waiting  for  a  bit  of  their 
money  back ;  then  the  thing  was  given  up." 

"  That's  the  way.  But  every  generation  brings  its  own 
hopeful  fools,  and  there's  always  plenty  ready  to  go  into 
a  mine.  You  catch  'em  underground  —  like  the  blind 
moles.  You  can  pay  some  chap  to  write  a  report  —  that's 
the  bait;  and  all  depends  upon  it." 

"  'Tis  a  queer  old  rogue's  roost  of  a  place  now.  If  you 
come  this  way  I'll  tell  you  so  much  as  I  know  about  it. 
Best  pick  your  steps  careful,  however,  for  the  stones 
are  loose  and  slippery,  and  you  ban't  built  to  take  a 
tumble  very  easy." 

The  survey  lasted  ten  minutes,  and  then  Lot  Snow, 
now  interested  in  his  own  thoughts,  prepared  to  depart. 
He  had  forgotten  the  other's  business. 

"  So  much  for  that,  then,"  he  said.  "  Now  I  can  tell 
that  mine  captain  how  'tis  with  the  place,  and  we'll  knock 
our  heads  together.  Hold  my  pony,  will'e,  while  I  get 
up." 

"  You're  a  cool  hand,  for  all  your  fat,"  said  John.  "  I'll 
ax  you  to  bide  a  minute,  please,  and  do  my  business  now 
I've  helped  you  so  well  as  I  know  how  to  do  yours. 
I've  been  awful  patient,  master." 

Snow  laughed. 

"  I'd  forgot  that.  But  you  use  the  right  words.  I 
have  done  your  business,  and  very  well  you  know  it. 
You  be  your  father's  son,  and  so  all's  said.  I'm  not 
going  down  any  more.  I'll  have  my  own  way  in  that 
matter  though  the  devil  was  against  me.  So  'tis  no  good 
you  kicking  against  the  pricks  —  none  whatever." 

"  But  the  case  is  altered  —  altered  every  way.  You 
must  have  heard  tell  what  I've  done  to  meet  you.  I've 
sold  my  sheep  —  all  they  Dartmoors  crossed  with  Scotch 
—  and  there's  two  hundred  and  twenty  solid  pounds,  and 
that's  very  near  a  quarter  of  the  debt." 

"  More  fool  you.  What's  the  sense  of  that?  And  'tis 
all  one  whether  or  not,  because  I  should  have  taken  'em 
over  with  the  mortgage.     If  }ou'd  read  .your  lawyer's 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  191 

papers  or  gone  to  him,  for  that  matter,  you'd  have  saved 
your  time  and  trouble.  You  don't  deserve  consideration. 
You're  an  idiot  Hke  the  rest." 

"  You  can  talk  so !  Don't  you  see  that  I've  strained 
every  nerve  and  done  all  a  mortal  man  knowed  how  to 
do  to  meet  you?  Surely  to  God  you'll  do  your  share 
now  —  you  that  are  rich  and  strong?  What  more  can 
any  man  think  upon?  There's  two  hundred  and  twenty 
solid  pounds  — " 

The  other  laughed  again,  and  showed  enjoyment  at 
Redstone's  chap-fallen  countenance. 

"  What  stufif  be  you  made  of  ?  Lath  and  plaster,  I 
should  think.  Can  a  grown  man  be  so  soft?  Your 
father  was  cleverer  than  you  —  and  harder.  'Tis  more'n 
you'll  do  to  work  off  the  legacy  he  left  you  when  he  in- 
sulted me.  He  ought  to  have  thought  upon  what  a  soft 
thing  you  were  before  he  said  what  he  said.  But  I  re- 
minded him  at  the  end :  that's  some  satisfaction.  And 
now  —  get  so  hot  as  you  please,  and  stick  out  your  jaw 
so  far  as  'twill  go,  'tis  all  one.  Dury  ban't  going  to  have 
a  Redstone  for  a  master  after  Christmas.  I'll  get  my 
pound  of  flesh  off  you,  my  boy  —  full  measure,  too.  I  be 
Lot  Snow  still,  I  believe.  I  ban't  going  down  all  along 
the  line,  and  if  my  own  nephew  — " 

He  scowled  to  himself  and  was  silent,  while  the  other 
man's  temper  broke  free.  It  sprang  like  water  from  a 
sluice  and  soon  drowned  his  self-control. 

"  What  a  gert  hulking  coward  you  be !  Always  mak- 
ing war  on  the  weak  —  never  on  the  strong.  You  cut 
and  run  afore  your  betters  like  any  trundle-tale  cur,  but 
where  women  or  the  poor  are  the  matter  you  bluster 
and  bully.  And  after  all  I've  done!  God  damn  it, 
don't  you  grin  in  my  face  no  more,  or  I'll  hit  you 
down !  " 

Redstone's  rage  affected  his  voice ;  it  sank  into  an 
angry  growl.  As  for  Snow,  he  was  glad  to  retort  in 
kind,  and  his  voice  rose  with  his  passion. 

"  Would  you,  you  red  hound !  Have  a  care,  or  you'll 
lose  more  than  your  mud-heap  you  call  a  farm.     I  see 


T92  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

you  twitching  on  your  liorse-vvliip,  but,  old  as  I  am,  I 
can  hit  harder  than  you.  'J'he  law's  o'  my  side  against 
all  such  penniless,  worthless  scamps  as  what  you  be,  and 
you  lift  your  arm  again  and  I'll  set  policeman  on  'e  and 
have  you  where  your  father  ought  to  have  been  if  he 
hadn't  died  like  a  snivelling  coward!  Would  you? 
Touch  me  and  I'll  get  some  decent  men  to  flog  the  hide 
ofif  your  dirty  back  afore  you'm  a  day  older." 

Redstone  did  not  answer  with  words.  He  was  now 
beside  himself.  He  snorted  and  foamed  at  the  mouth. 
A  violent  physical  storm  swept  him ;  he  swung  his  riding- 
whip  with  all  his  might,  and,  before  the  other  could  guard 
himself,  brought  the  buckthorn  handle  down  on  Snow's 
left  temple.  The  old  man's  hat  shot  into  a  blackberry 
bush ;  he  flung  up  his  hands ;  he  gave  at  the  knees  and 
fell  backward  heavily.  One  loud  cry  he  uttered,  and  only 
one,  but  that  sound  terrified  his  pony,  which  started, 
strained  at  its  rein  and  strove  to  get  loose.  It  also 
reached  the  fading  senses  of  the  girl  hidden  forty  feet 
above  them  in  the  ruin.  It  penetrated  her  consciousness 
and  brought  her  back  to  momentary  life.  She  heard  a 
voice  raised  in  savage  frenzy  after  the  scream. 

"  There !  you  brutal  wretch  —  that's  payment  for  long 
scores !  And,  please  God,  you're  dead,  and  the  world 
rid  of  you !  " 

Redstone  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  hulk  at  his  feet  and 
stared  round  him.  He  looked  aloft  and  saw  a  spectre, 
as  it  seemed.  A  white-faced,  dim-eyed  thing  stared 
down  for  one  second ;  then  it  sank  back  out  of  his  sight. 
But  he  knew  that  he  had  seen  Drusilla.  The  mass  of 
Lot  Snow's  body  still  moved.  The  great  figure  had  fallen 
supine ;  it  quivered  still,  and  its  arms  and  legs  contracted. 
But  they  soon  ceased  to  do  so.  The  eyes  were  open  and 
unseeing. 

Redstone's  mind  moved  quickly,  and  in  his  excitement 
he  built  up  a  wild  theory  of  the  situation.  He  fancied 
that  it  was  the  man  at  his  feet  who  had  brought  Dru- 
silla here  and  made  her  a  prisoner  aloft  in  the  ruined 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  193 

chambers  of  the  mine.  He  cried  out  to  her,  but  received 
no  answer.  Then  he  cast  about  how  best  to  reach  her, 
and  presently  found  the  only  means  of  climbing  aloft. 
By  the  ruined  wall  he  ascended  and  crept  to  her  and 
found  her  perishing.  The  tremendous  discovery  meant 
more  to  him  than  all  else  in  the  world.  The  past  vanished 
as  a  dream  of  no  account ;  the  future  alone  demanded 
all  his  energy  and  powers ;  he  cared  not  whether  Snow 
lived  or  died,  he  was  only  concerned  with  saving  Drusilla 
if  it  might  be  done.  She  was  not  able  to  form  her  words, 
and  he  could  not  so  much  as  tell  if  she  recognised  him 
and  understood  him.  She  babbled  drowsily,  and  showed 
a  disinclination  to  be  moved.  She  struggled  when  he 
lifted  her  and  struck  him  feebly  in  the  face;  but  he 
understood  that  her  wits  were  gone  and  her  life  on  tiptoe 
for  flight.  With  immense  care,  and  at  no  little  risk  to 
them  both,  he  carried  her  down.  Then,  while  the  dusk 
of  evening  thickened  through  the  woods,  he  lifted  her 
on  to  his  horse  and  held  her  there.  His  whole  soul  poured 
itself  out  upon  this  rescue,  and  all  other  things  were 
forgotten.  The  man  at  his  feet  had  passed  clean  out  of 
his  mind.  His  action  did  not  weigh  upon  him  for  one 
moment  —  either  then  or  afterwards ;  he  was  primitive 
in  all  his  instincts.  He  had  fought  nature  hard  in  his 
endeavour  to  save  his  farm,  and  when  all  was  lost  he 
returned  swiftly  to  himself  by  the  short-cut  of  passion. 
Now  faced  with  an  apparent  corpse,  he  cared  nothing. 
By  no  act  of  his  would  any  flicker  of  life  be  preserved 
for  Lot  Snow.  But  he  mightily  desired  to  save  life  for 
another,  and  the  doubt  whether  he  had  power  to  do  so 
made  Redstone  forget  all  lesser  issues.  He  planned  his 
route  for  home,  set  Drusilla  on  his  horse,  held  her  there 
until  he  had  cleared  Yarner,  and  then  himself  mounted. 
With  Drusilla  in  his  arms  he  traversed  the  Moor  under 
the  gloaming.  He  held  on  his  road  by  lonely  ways 
through  wood  and  combe ;  he  avoided  every  farm  and 
hamlet ;  he  crossed  Hameldon,  crept  beside  Grimspound, 
and  two  hours  later  reached  Dury   unseen.     Not  one 

<3 


194  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

thought  did  he  bestow  on  Lot  Snow  during  the  journey, 
for  every  energy  of  his  body,  every  throb  of  his  brain, 
every  beat  of  his  heart  was  absorbed  in  Drusilla  and  the 
hope  to  save  her  alive. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Lot  Snow  had  related  to  Redstone  but  a  part  of  the 
recent  scene  between  his  nephew  and  himself.  In  an 
evil  and  malignant  mood  the  man  had  listened  to  Timothy 
declare  his  immediate  departure,  and  suffered  his  own 
disappointment  and  anger  to  take  vindictive  shape.  So 
sharp  was  the  strife  between  them  that  when  the  elder 
mounted  his  pony  and  rode  ofif  to  keep  his  appointment 
with  Redstone,  the  other  had  hastened  up  the  street  be- 
side him,  and  only  became  silent  when  Mr.  Snow  galloped 
beyond  earshot.  Threats  passed,  and  Timothy's  aunt, 
Sibella  Snow,  to  whom  he  returned  when  his  uncle  had 
departed,  for  some  minutes  endeavoured  vainly  to  calm 
the  sufferer. 

For  Lot  had  not  hesitated  to  declare  that  it  was  he  who 
had  prompted  Drusilla  to  desert  her  betrothed ;  and 
that  she  had  been  glad  to  go  to  another  man.  He  flouted 
Timothy  with  this  lie,  and  assured  him  that  his  sweet- 
heart would  soon  be  safely  settled  in  life  and  wedded 
to  better  than  himself.  They  cursed  one  another  in  the 
open  street,  to  the  wonder  of  certain  round-eyed  children 
and  an  adult  or  two ;  then  with  the  departure  of  Lot, 
Timothy  returned  to  his  aunt,  listened  to  her  words  and 
grew  cooler.  She  strove  to  bring  a  little  peace  to  him, 
and  declared  that  the  things  that  her  brother  had  said 
were  not  true. 

"  'Tis  right,  I  expect,  that  he  got  the  girl  from  you ; 
but  Fm  sure  it  isn't  right  that  he's  found  her  a  husband, 
or  anything  like  that,  and  there's  no  call  for  you  to  be- 
lieve it,"  said  Sibella.  "  You  go  after  him  quick  in  a 
peacefuller  frame  of  mind  and  beg  his  pardon,  and  part 
friends,  not  enemies.  You've  wrecked  the  hope  of  his 
life,  and,  as  a  man  little  used  to  being  defied,  it's  made 
him  savage  and  furious.     He's  sick,  too,  else  you'd  never 

195 


196  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

have  seen  him  forget  himself  hke  that.  He's  properly 
ill,  1  believe,  and  the  doctor  knows  it,  and  so  does  he. 
You  go  after  him,  so  swift  as  you  may,  and  ask  pardon 
for  your  harsh  words,  and  take  a  kindly  leave  of  him 
if  he'll  let  you.  'Tis  your  only  chance  after  this  quarrel. 
Then  distance  will  soften  him,  and  very  likely  make  him 
forgive.  And  as  for  her  —  Drusilla  — 'tis  very  like  he 
may  have  worked  upon  her  to  give  you  up,  and  said 
'twas  for  your  own  good.  'Tis  just  the  clever  thing  he 
would  suggest  to  her,  and  the  brave  thing  she'd  do." 

"  But  she  would  have  told  me." 

"  And  spoiled  all.  Not  she.  If  she  strung  herself  up 
to  throw  you  over,  because  he  said  you'd  be  ruined  else, 
'twasn't  likely  she  could  tell  you  her  reason.  But  now, 
you  see,  your  uncle  has  let  out  her  reason.  And  a  girl  as 
could  be  brave  enough  for  that,  won't  go  back  on  it,  you 
may  be  sure.  There's  hope,  however,  for  if  she  finds,  as 
she  must,  that  you're  going  off  to  foreign  parts,  and 
won't  fall  in  with  your  uncle's  plans,  despite  all  she's 
done  —  then  what's  to  prevent  her,  come  presently,  from 
being  your  sweetheart  again?  She's  standing  out  for 
your  good,  and  belike  she'll  come  back  to  you  for  your 
good.  But  the  first  step  is  for  you  to  be  friends  with 
Uncle  Lot.  He  knows  now  that  you  won't  change,  and 
when  he  cools  down  and  uses  his  wits,  he'll  see  that  his 
cause  ban't  bettered  by  bullying  you  any  further  —  or 
Drusilla  either." 

The  man  became  excited  again ;  this  time  at  the  stimu- 
lation of  hope. 

"  But  we're  leaving  England  to-morrow  —  mother  and 
me. 

"  So  much  the  better.  There's  nought  softens  the 
hard  heart  like  distance,  I  tell  you.  I  be  your  side,  and 
you  shall  hear  where  Drusilla  have  got  to  so  soon  as  I  can 
find  out  from  Lot.  No  doubt  he  knows  all  about  her. 
And  perhaps  she'll  come  after  you  to  foreign  parts  pres- 
ently." 

"  How  can  I  leave  her  behind,  now  I've  heard  this  ?  " 
he  asked ;  but  she  bade  him  be  gone. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  197 

"  Don't  you  waste  no  more  time  here.  Run  after  your 
uncle  and  sing  small  —  so  small  as  ever  you  know  how. 
Overget  him  if  you  can  ;  then  tell  him  where  you're  going, 
and  what  you  mean  to  do." 

Timothy  thanked  her,  and  set  out  to  do  her  bidding. 
Mr.  Snow  was  gone  out  of  sight,  but  his  nephew  knew 
which  way  and  hastened  up  the  hill  after  him.  The  old 
man  had  won  too  great  a  start,  however,  and  it  was  only 
by  asking  some  labourers  returning  from  their  work  that 
his  nephew  could  follow  the  right  road.  Through  Hey 
Tor  Valley  he  went,  and  then  lost  the  trail,  for  Lot  had 
proceeded  swiftly,  and,  despite  his  great  bulk,  pushed  his 
pony  against  the  steepness  of  the  hill. 

At  the  Moor  edge  the  pursuer  was  at  fault ;  and  then  it 
happened  that  he  saw  Frederick  Moyle.  The  man  was 
on  duty,  and  passed  him  with  blank  disregard ;  but  Tim- 
othy, now  in  some  measure  elated,  forgot  their  enmity 
and  addressed  him. 

"  Have  you  seen  my  Uncle  Snow  up  over  ?  "  he  said. 

Moyle,  however,  ignored  the  question  and  went  on  his 
way. 

The  fact  reminded  Timothy  that  he  spoke  to  an  enemy, 
and  being  now  in  no  dark  mood,  but  softened  and  even 
sanguine,  he  turned  and  walked  by  the  other's  side,  and 
spoke  to  him. 

"  I'm  going  out  of  England  to-morrow,  and  I  don't 
w^ant  to  leave  enemies  behind  me.  I  ask  your  pardon 
for  anything  I've  done  amiss  to  you.  All  the  same, 
Moyle,  you  know  who  was  right." 

But  Frederick  had  nursed  his  wrath  and  kept  it  warm 
too  long.  It  could  not  be  cooled  at  this  slight  breath  of 
contrition ;  nor  did  he  desire  it  to  cool.  He  only  re- 
gretted the  fact  that  Timothy  was  departing.  He  took 
no  notice  of  the  other's  apology,  but  replied  to  his  ques- 
tion. 

"  Lot  Snow  on  his  pony  went  across  the  hill  yonder 
twenty  minutes  ago.  You  ask  me  as  a  policeman,  and  I 
answer  as  a  policeman." 

"  I've  had  a  stiff  breeze  with  him,  too,"  said  Timothy. 


198  TIIF.  I'ORF.ST  OX  TME   lUl.L 

"  And  I  want  to  make  friends  all  round  before  I'm  off. 
Good-bye,  iVfoyle.     I  wish  you  well." 

He  got  no  answer,  and  went  on  by  the  track — a 
bridle-path  over  the  Moor.  For  a  considerable  distance 
he  followed  it ;  then  it  fell  over  the  hills  and  presently 
came  to  the  edge  of  Yarner.  Here  it  entered  the  forest 
at  a  gate,  where  an  ancient  and  broken  tramway,  with 
granite  lines,  wound  through  the  side  of  the  woods  upon 
its  circuitous  journey  from  the  quarries  above  to  the  vale 
beneath. 

Timothy  stood  and  considered  for  a  while.  He 
guessed  that  his  uncle  might  be  gone  through  Yarner  as 
a  short  cut  elsewhere.  It  remained  only  to  descend 
through  the  wood,  and  try  to  overtake  him  before  the 
night  fell.  He  marshalled  his  thoughts  and  framed  an 
apology.  Then  a  human  sound  —  a  single,  faint  cry 
uttered  far  off  —  struck  upon  his  ear.  He  strained  to 
listen,  but  the  noise  was  not  repeated.  That  harm  might 
have  overtaken  his  uncle  occurred  to  him,  and  he  made 
haste  down  the  woods  in  the  direction  of  the  cry.  He 
thought  that  Lot  Snow  had  possibly  been  thrown  under 
the  trees  and  injured.  He  stood  at  a  spot  more  than 
half  a  mile  above  the  mine,  but  now  set  out  in  that 
direction.  As  he  went  he  found  time  to  wonder  what 
would  happen  if  his  uncle  were  hurt  so  far  from  suc- 
cour. 

Dusk  was  down,  and  the  woods  began  to  take  the 
shadow  of  night's  wings  upon  them  before  he  reached  the 
ruin.  He  was  passing  by  it  on  a  steep  path  when  he  came 
upon  the  bulk  of  Lot  Snow's  body,  lying  where  it  had 
fallen  across  the  way.  His  skull  was  broken  in  at  the 
temple,  and  he  was  dead.  Twenty  yards  off  stood  his 
tethered  pony,  and  by  his  side  lay  his  riding-whip. 

The  effect  of  the  discovery  acted  otherwise  than  might 
have  been  predicted,  for  Timothy  Snow,  during  the 
crowded  events  of  the  last  few  weeks,  had  suffered  from 
such  strain  and  stress  that  his  nerve  and  spirit  were  un- 
sound. He,  who  had  not  dreamed  that  any  chance  of 
existence  could  find  him  unguarded  and  unharmed ;  he. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  199 

who  had  proclaimed  himself  as  safely  through  the  danger 
zone ;  he,  who  had  prided  himself  before  Drusilla  and 
others  as  one  invulnerable,  was  at  this  juncture  half 
drowned  under  the  waters  of  life.  He  had  felt  himself 
torn  many  ways;  he  doubted  his  judgment,  distrusted 
his  instincts,  went  in  grief  and  despair,  wandered  far 
from  his  own  self-restraint  and  reserve,  acted  on  impulse, 
and  often  found  himself  in  two  minds.  But  upon  this 
chaos,  within  the  past  hour,  there  had  flashed  an  un- 
certain sunrise  of  hope ;  and  now  so  terrific  and  unex- 
pected a  catastrophe  breaking  suddenly  upon  this  dawn, 
found  the  man  in  no  case  to  approach  it  with  fitting  reso- 
lution and  courage.  It  bewildered  him.  He  stood  stag- 
gered and  dismayed.  Here  was  no  accident,  but  a  great 
crime.  He  knelt  by  the  corpse,  and  rose  to  find  warm 
blood  upon  his  knee.  Then  he  became  occupied  solely 
with  himself,  and  believed  that  chance  had  not  only 
thrust  him  direct  upon  murder,  but  had  also  ordered 
events  in  such  a  way  that  for  a  moment  at  least  he  stood 
darkly  shadowed  at  the  very  centre  of  the  tragedy.  He 
argued  rapidly  and  even  clearly.  An  enemy  had  met 
Snow  by  secret  appointment  and  destroyed  him,  and 
that  enemy  ere  now  be  well  on  the  road  to  safety.  It 
was  grown  too  dark,  even  had  he  desired,  to  make  any 
search  about  the  corpse.  The  thing  itself  had  sunk  into 
a  colourless  mound  under  the  deepening  shades.  It 
might  have  been  one  of  the  great  ant-hills  that  lifted 
round  about. 

Timothy's  mind  was  quickly  established,  and  actual, 
physical  fear,  finding  his  armour  off,  played  a  fierce  part 
in  the  decision.  He  saw  himself  in  peril,  and  contrasted 
that  dark  possibility  with  the  beam  of  blessed  hope  so 
recently  flashed  upon  his  afifairs.  He  had  just  heard 
precious  news,  and  believed  it ;  he  had  just  listened  to 
Lot's  sister,  while  she  explained  how  Drusilla  was 
tempted  to  desert  him  for  his  own  good ;  and  he  grasped 
the  probability,  and,  knowing  her,  accepted  it  as  the  very 
trumpet  of  truth.  Life  was  lifted  to  heaven  in  an  in- 
stant, and  whereas,  before  this  immense  discovery,  the 


200  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

man  had  felt  that  he  cared  little  as  to  his  future,  now  all 
was  changed,  and  the  awakened  chances  of  prosperity 
made  him  a  coward.  He  decided  that  to  pursue  his 
plans,  and  leave  England  at  once  was  the  wisest  course. 
He  felt  that  the  longer  discovery  of  this  outrage  was  de- 
layed, the  less  might  he  be  associated  with  it  in  men's 
minds.  Because  for  the  moment  it  was  very  well  known, 
and  that  through  certain  independent  witnesses,  that  he 
had  quarrelled  violently  with  his  uncle.  Thereupon  he 
argued  that  he  might  reasonably  assist  the  unknown  doer 
of  the  deed  to  hide  it ! 

His  understanding  was  shaken;  his  mind  whirled. 
Loose  threads  and  flashes  of  thought,  wild  fears  and 
frantic  hopes,  tangled  themselves  in  his  brain.  The 
actual  murderer  had  kept  far  more  cool  than  he.  A 
thing  of  all  others  least  likely  to  have  been  predicted 
from  this  man's  character  happened,  for  time  and  chance 
had  played  such  pranks  with  him  that  now,  overcome  by 
fear,  desiring  life  and  liberty  as  he  had  never  before  de- 
sired them,  and  looking  to  the  future  for  salvation,  he 
was  moved  to  an  extraordinary  deed.  Under  the  dark- 
ness Timothy  Snow  laboured  to  conceal  the  crime  of  an- 
other man's  commission.  For  his  great  new-born  hope 
he  worked,  and  for  the  certainty  of  recovering  that  which 
was  lost.  He  felt  no  shadow  of  sorrow  for  the  old 
man  thus  tragically  cut  off;  the  sole,  present  purpose  of 
his  unsettled  reason  was  to  conceal  all  traces  of  the 
murder,  and  hide  its  victim  from  discovery.  Not  ten 
yards  from  where  Lot  Snow  had  perished  there  yawned 
a  great  hole  in  the  ground.  Once  this  aperture  sank  into 
the  depth  of  the  hill,  but  it  had  been  filled  in  a  great 
measure,  and  was  now  no  more  than  forty  feet  deep. 
Hither  Timothy  dragged  the  dead  and  thrust  him.  Then 
he  gathered  litter  of  dry  wood,  with  leaves  and  stones, 
and  cast  down  a  mass  of  some  tons  upon  the  corpse. 

He  presented  the  spectacle  of  a  strong  man  struggling 
in  surges  of  panic  terror,  and  turned  to  a  temporary 
poltroon  by  the  accidents  of  life.  He  behaved  like  a 
murderer,  toiled  with  the  demoniac  strength  of  one  ex- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  201 

cited  by  a  great  crime  and  the  threat  of  its  retribution, 
erred  in  detail  of  forgetfulness  just  as  an  actual  criminal 
under  like  circumstances  might  have  erred.  Lot  Snow's 
whip  he  buried  with  him,  but  his  hat  he  did  not  think 
upon  or  seek,  because  it  was  not  visible.  All  done,  he 
feared  suddenly  to  stop  another  moment.  Therefore  he 
departed,  but  was  inspired  to  lead  away  the  dead  man's 
pony  with  him,  and  release  it  far  from  the  actual  scene 
of  the  murder.  He  mounted,  therefore,  and  rode  it 
through  the  woods,  past  the  empty  house  where  he  had 
lived  with  his  mother,  and  liberated  it  half  an  hour 
later  in  the  high  moor  that  ran  northerly  beyond  Yarner. 
That  night  Timothy  wrote  to  his  Aunt  Sibella.  He 
forgot  to  mention  his  destination,  and  merely  said  that 
he  had  followed  but  failed  to  overtake  his  uncle.  Then, 
even  as  he  posted  his  letter,  it  seemed  that  the  juggling 
fiend  so  long  responsible  for  his  actions  departed.  Scales 
fell  from  his  eyes,  a  cloud  blew  away  from  his  intellect, 
and  he  saw  the  truth  of  the  thing  that  he  had  done.  The 
whole  concatenation  unfolded  scene  by  scene  before  him. 
He  retraced  every  step,  and  perceived  how  first  his 
uncle's  story  had  roused  him  into  making  foolish  threats, 
how  then  Sibella's  sense  had  allayed  his  anger,  and  shown 
that  the  woman  he  loved  might  still  be  within  his  reach. 
Upon  that  sudden  after-glow  of  hope  had  fallen  the 
terrific  circumstance  of  his  discovery,  and  the  over- 
mastering dread  awakened  thereby.  From  that  moment, 
utterly  unmanned,  he  had  taken  leave  of  himself  and 
became  as  another  being;  at  this  juncture,  driven  by 
medley  of  emotions,  tangled  hopes  and  terrors,  frantic 
desires  to  be  safe,  that  he  might  yet  win  what  he  sup- 
posed was  for  ever  lost,  he  had  suffered  a  sort  of  posses- 
sion, and  run  into  the  very  peril  from  which  he  was 
striving  to  escape.  Looking  back,  he  appreciated  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  action  and  the  appalling  risks  that  he 
had  taken.  He  believed  that  only  the  darkness  of  night 
had  saved  him.  Even  yet  it  was  highly  probable  that 
the  murder  might  be  brought  home  to  him.  It  looked 
but  a  short  step  from  the  thing  that  he  had  done  to 


202  THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL 

actual  murder  —  so  his  intellect  told  him ;  and  in  the  wild 
visions  of  the  night  that  followed,  he  dreamed  of  himself 
as  committing  the  crime,  and  then  being  hunted  to  the 
four  corners  of  earth  by  outraged  man. 

Early  the  next  day  he  and  his  mother  departed  from 
Drewsteignton  to  Plymouth,  and  since  their  address  and 
the  port  of  their  departure  was  unknown  to  any  living 
person  at  Ilsington,  it  proved  impossible  to  inform  them 
before  they  sailed  that  Lot  Snow  had  not  returned  home 
on  the  evening  of  Timothy's  last  visit. 


CHAPTER  X 

It  was  long  before  John  Redstone  devoted  a  thought  to 
his  own  affairs,  and  then  only  events  in  the  world  re- 
minded him  of  them.  Even  had  his  nature  been  of  a 
sort  to  brood  upon  his  action,  and  sink  under  that  by- 
product of  the  Christian  ethics  called  remorse,  the  im- 
mediate struggle  for  Drusilla's  life  must  have  obscured 
for  a  season  events  that  to  his  mind  were  far  less  im- 
portant. But  the  man's  character  declared  itself  after 
commission  of  this  definite  deed,  and  lifted  him  above 
any  slough  of  despond  or  any  dread  of  retribution.  It 
is  a  fact  that  he  hardly  gave  a  thought  to  the  thing  that 
he  had  done  until  he  learned  that  there  was  hue  and 
cry  for  Lot  Snow,  who  had  disappeared  and  could  not 
be  found.  Then  he  pondered  over  the  past,  and  judged 
that  since  Snow  had  not  revived  and  reached  succour, 
he  must  be  dead.  His  indifference  was  extreme.  He 
had  not  meant  to  kill  the  man,  but  was  glad  that  he 
lived  no  longer.  Lot  Snow  had  used  him  unjustly; 
there  were  many  cruel  deeds  chronicled  against  him,  and 
since  the  world  must  be  the  better  for  Snow's  departure 
from  it,  Redstone  experienced  no  uneasiness  in  the  fact. 
But  he  much  desired  to  escape  suspicion  for  the  same 
reason  that  Timothy  Snow  desired  to  do  so,  and  he  was 
glad  that  no  wild  words  fell  from  Drusilla's  lips  during 
the  days  that  followed  her  arrival  at  Dury. 

Thither  he  brought  her,  and  summoned  a  doctor  to  tend 
her,  and  explained  how  she  had  wanted  to  end  her  life 
and  had  kept  from  food.  Then  she  had  changed  her 
mind,  so  vowed  John  Redstone,  and  felt  now  desirous 
to  live.  That  was  questionably  true,  yet  it  could  not 
be  said  that  Drusilla  fought  against  the  effort  made  to 
save  her.  Redstone's  immense  vitality  seemed  to  dom- 
inate her  at  this  pass.     By  a  sort  of  telepathic  influence 

20.^ 


204  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

his  spirit  exercised  authority  over  hers.  In  her  profound 
weakness  and  inanition  she  obeyed  him,  for  lack  of 
strength  to  disobey,  and,  as  time  passed  and  she  grew 
stronger,  the  bitterness  of  recollection  stood  between  her 
and  any  further  desire  for  death.  She  remembered  the 
awful  physical  suffering,  and  felt  unequal  to  facing  it 
again.  She  became  gradually  content  to  be  alive.  The 
past  sank  to  a  nightmare  remembered  only  as  a  dim 
and  distant  horror ;  she  began  to  grow  ashamed  of  the 
thing  that  she  had  tried  to  do.  Very  carefully  she  was 
nursed  back  to  life  by  John  Redstone  and  his  married 
sister,  Mercy  French.  This  woman,  who  came  to  dwell 
at  Dury  until  Drusilla  was  strong  enough  to  do  without 
her,  made  a  good  nurse  under  the  doctor's  direction. 

Redstone  proved  very  cunning  on  Drusilla's  behalf  and 
his  own.  Only  the  medical  man  knew  the  truth,  and  he 
did  not  tell  it  again.  The  story  uttered  abroad  sug- 
gested that  Drusilla  had  been  at  Dury  longer  than  was 
the  case,  and  it  made  as  little  as  possible  of  her  severe 
physical  illness  and  narrow  escape  from  death.  Thus 
her  name  became  associated  with  that  of  Redstone,  and 
her  conduct  was  attributed  to  a  change  of  mind.  She 
had  thrown  over  Snow,  and  found  in  another  man  that 
which  he  lacked.  She  had  suffered  for  a  while  and 
then  gone  to  the  other  man :  that  sufficed  to  explain  the 
mystery.  Indeed  few  troubled  their  heads  about  her, 
for  a  matter  far  more  exciting  filled  local  mouths.  Lot 
Snow  had  vanished,  his  nephew  was  gone  out  of  Eng- 
land, and  his  sister,  Sibella,  had  collapsed  under  the 
shock  of  his  disappearance  and  doubtful  fate. 

John  Redstone,  then,  desiring  before  all  things  to  win 
Drusilla,  seized  every  chance  that  could  help  him  do  so. 
He  made  no  love,  but  he  laboured  for  her  without  ceas- 
ing, exhausted  his  ingenuity  during  her  slow  return  to 
health,  and  spent  all  time  possible  either  with  her  or  in 
seeking  things  to  add  to  her  content.  Then  a  cloud  fell  on 
his  increasing  hopes,  for.  while  Drusilla  in  her  weakness 
was  glad  to  have  him  beside  her  and  had  unconsciously 
flattered  his  sangviine  spirit  with  respect  to  the  future, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  205 

there  came  at  last  a  shadow  in  her  eyes  when  she  re- 
garded him,  and  a  sudden  silence  upon  her  lips  and  a 
shrinking  and  shuddering  of  her  limbs  before  the 
thoughts  he  awakened.  He  divined  quickly  enough  what 
this  must  mean,  and  perceived  that  memory  was  sift- 
ing the  past  for  her  and  lifting  curtains,  one  by  one,  from 
the  varied  scenes  of  her  starvation.  She  was  come  to 
the  climax  of  memory,  and,  while  her  heart  might  be 
soft  for  her  saviour,  she  could  not  choose  but  live  again 
through  those  grim  moments  in  the  twilight.  She  saw 
Snow  fall  and  heard  his  cry.  She  remembered  what 
followed;  she  thirsted  to  know  the  truth,  yet  dared  not 
ask  to  know  it.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  John  Redstone 
began  to  regret  the  thing  that  he  had  done.  He  hoped 
and  believed  that  presently  Drusilla  would  give  the  life 
he  had  saved  into  his  keeping ;  but  now  he  began  to 
doubt  whether  the  life  that  he  had  destroyed  might  after 
all  prevent  her.  He  was  fearful  and  impatient  by  turns : 
fearful  that  such  an  accident  might  separate  them,  and 
impatient  that  it  should  do  so.  To  regard  the  destruc- 
tion of  Lot  Snow  as  a  sin  appeared  to  him  the  highest 
unreason.  A  crime  it  might  be  proved,  but  not  a  sin 
in  his  opinion.  He  longed  for  increased  strength  and 
control  to  return  to  Drusilla,  that  he  might  talk  the  mat- 
ter out  and  explain  to  her  how  the  thing  he  had  done 
was  good  in  itself,  and  that,  good  or  evil,  no  blame  at- 
tached to  him,  since  the  dead  man  had  goaded  him  into 
passion  and  made  him  for  the  moment  irresponsible. 
But  that  even  her  eyes  should  fear  him  meanwhile 
troubled  John  a  great  deal. 

He  spoke  in  private  to  Drusilla  on  a  day  when  she 
was  strong  enough  to  listen.  A  stranger,  aware  of  the 
facts,  had  thought  the  man  inconceivably  cynical,  but  in 
reality  such  an  attitude  was  foreign  to  his  character. 
Drusilla  had  been  kind  to  him  of  late,  and,  realising 
something  of  his  toil  and  expenditures  on  her  behalf,  to- 
day expressed  her  gratitude  in  generous  terms. 

She  had  thought  much  upon  the  tragedy,  and,  from 
horror,  her  mind  had  grown  more  calm.     It  appeared  to 


2o6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

her  a  strange  Nemesis  that  Redstone's  hand  had  de- 
stroyed the  man  responsible  for  her  own  deep  sufferings. 
Then  the  question  arose  whether  Lot  Snow  was  indeed 
dead,  and  she  hesitated  no  more  but  asked  John  con- 
cerning that  matter,  and  explained  at  the  same  time  that 
she  was  not  his  judge. 

"  Tell  me  about  it.  I  can  hear  it  now,"  she  said, 
while  he  sat  beside  her  on  a  summer  day  in  the  little 
garden  of  Dury.  "  'Twas  a  terrible  strange  thing,  and 
means  more  to  me  than  any  will  ever  know  now  —  the 
death  of  that  man.  And  have  none  ever  thought  'twas 
you,  John  ?  " 

He  was  very  glad  she  had  come  to  this  event  at  last. 

"  Why  should  they  ?  Sometimes  I  doubt  if  'twas  me 
myself!  The  old  devil  had  got  me  properly  dancing 
with  rage,  and  he  laughed  to  see  me  dance.  He  was 
torturing  me  and  lashing  me,  but  he  forgot  I  wasn't  on 
a  chain,  like  a  baited  bull.  And  he  didn't  remember 
I  had  my  whip  in  my  hand.  And  so  he  got  his  quick 
passage.  And  though  I  didn't  mean  to,  I'm  glad  — 
damned  glad  —  I  did  it ;  and  I'm  gladder  still  that  no- 
body's found  it  out.  Only  you  know  —  only  you  in  the 
whole  world,  and  only  you  ever  will.  He  wouldn't  take 
my  money,  and  he  was  firm  set  to  ruin  me,  and  when  I 
thought  of  all  my  past  patience  and  humbleness  with 
him,  I  got  mad  and  let  fly  and  dropped  him." 

Again  she  saw  the  great  body  of  Lot  Snow  in  the 
gloaming.  It  reminded  her  of  a  slaughtered  pig,  and 
often  haunted  her  dreams. 

"  He  is  dead,  then  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Dead  as  a  herring,  though  only  I  could  swear  to  it. 
'Tis  a  terrible  queer  thing  that  keeper  Kingdon  or  an- 
other haven't  found  the  man.  I  should  have  thought 
afore  now  they'd  have  nosed  him  out.  No  carrion  will 
choke  a  crow,  they  say,  so  I  daresay  some  fine  birds  will 
eat  him ;  and  there's  been  gay  doings  there  among  the 
beasts,  too,  I  reckon!  You  could  glut  and  come  again 
to  that  mountain  o'  meat.  They  catched  his  pony  miles 
away  up  'pon  Trendlebere  Down  two  days  after,  though 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  207 

Lord  knows  how  it  had  got  there  from  the  mine  without 
being  stopped.  And  that's  all  there  is  known.  Of 
course  they'll  find  him  when  the  i)heasant  shooting  be- 
gins, if  not  sooner.  The  mazing  thing  is  that  he  should 
have  been  in  the  wood  unfound  so  long." 

"  'Tis  an  awful  dream  to  me  looking  back." 

"  'Tis  a  dream  to  me,  too,  but  not  awful.  I  still  feel 
my  riding-whip  tingling  down  the  handle,  and  I  like  to 
feel  it.  'Twas  doing  the  world  a  proper  good  turn,  and 
I'm  glad  about  it;  and  if  the  devil's  flown  away  with 
his  bones,  so  much  the  better  for  me.  And  his  money, 
they  say,  will  go  to  his  nephew  and  his  old  sister,  though 
it  looks  as  if  she  wouldn't  need  it,  for  she's  fallen  terrible 
ill  of  the  shock." 

Drusilla  marvelled  at  his  indifference ;  yet  in  a  week 
she  began  to  share  it.  Looking  back,  long  afterward, 
she  felt  amazed  that  she  could  regard  the  death  of  a 
man  so  lightly,  but  a  light  thing  it  seemed  to  her  then 
before  her  own  sufferings.  And  the  dead  had  caused 
those  sufferings. 

She  was  still  very  sick,  and  the  storms  through  which 
she  had  struggled  left  her  feeble  in  purpose  and  un- 
certain in  grasp ;  but  imagination  broke  control  at  this 
juncture  and  concerned  itself  with  Redstone  and  his 
deed.  She  built  a  false  picture  of  the  situation,  and 
would  gladly  have  communicated  her  thoughts  to  a  sym- 
pathetic listener,  but  none  could  ever  be  allowed  to  know 
the  truth.  Presently  she  suffered  for  Redstone  more 
deeply  than  he  was  ever  like  to  suffer  for  himself.  She 
imagined  the  remorse  that  he  would  never  feel,  and  pic- 
tured the  horrors  of  the  confession  that  he  would  never 
make.  Her  nature  began  to  turn  to  him  and  exalt  him. 
From  these  thoughts,  which  she  imparted  to  him,  he 
laughed  her  away.  He  regarded  his  act  with  amazing  un- 
concern, and  so  well  knew  himself,  his  outlook  on  life 
and  conduct,  as  to  declare  that  he  would  never  wake  the 
gloomier  nor  sleep  the  worse  for  the  thing  that  he  had 
done. 

There  was  an  aspect  of  the  matter,  however,  that  his 


2o8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

grandfather  now  bronglit  to  his  attention,  and  the  situa- 
tion, resulting  from  Lot  Snow's  death,  made  John  far 
graver  tlian  thought  of  the  death  itself  had  power  to  do. 
He  and  old  Jacob  conversed  on  the  subject,  and  John's 
sanguine  spirit  was  clouded  in  some  degree  until  he 
recollected  that  his  grandfather  spoke  without  full  knowl- 
edge, and  w^as  therefore  the  less  to  be  regarded.  It 
seemed  that  the  master  of  Dury  had  exchanged  one  tyrant 
for  another ;  because  there  was  a  rumour  that  Lot  Snow 
had  left  no  will,  and  that,  if  indeed  he  was  dead,  Timothy 
would  presently  inherit  his  possessions. 

"  Supposing,  then,"  said  old  Jacob,  "  that  what  you 
want  to  happen  does  happen,  and  in  course  of  time  this 
poor,  lonely  wreck  of  a  girl  will  marry  you,  what  price 
Timothy  Snow  when  he  comes  home  to  all  these  great 
treasures?  It  looks  to  me,  Johnny,  like  this:  'twill  be  a 
bit  of  a  toss  up  'twixt  the  farm  and  the  maiden.  If 
she  changes  her  mind  again  about  him  now  and  will  wed 
him  after  all,  then,  when  he  hears  tell  how  you  be- 
friended her  when  she  was  ill,  he'll  be  only  too  glad  to 
give  you  all  you  want  and  more,  to  reward  you ;  but  if 
he  comes  home  to  find  as  you've  got  her  and  he's  out  of 
the  hunt  once  for  all,  then,  if  there's  anything  of  Lot 
Snow  in  him,  you  mark  me,  he'll  be  just  so  swift  to  lay 
hands  on  Dury  as  ever  his  uncle  meant  to  be.  That's  only 
human  nature." 

"  He's  not  like  Lot  Snow,"  answ^ered  John.  "  He's 
built  on  a  very  different  pattern,  and  be  the  justest,  hon- 
estest  man  I  ever  met  with.  Terrible  high  opinions  he 
hath.  But  the  luck's  against  him  in  this.  Lucky  in  life, 
unlucky  in  love ;  and  he's  got  the  luck  in  life,  and  mayhap 
the  luck  in  love  after  all  be  mine.  What's  Dury  to  me 
against  her?  " 

"  But  'tis  just  a  question  whether  you  did  ought  to 
make  love  to  her,"  said  the  old  man.  "  I  don't  speak  for 
myself,  because  I'm  not  the  sort  that  would  suffer  much 
if  I  was  drove  out  of  here ;  but  I  speak  for  you,  and  I 
say  that  'tis  doubtful  whether  she  — " 

He  stopped  because  sorrow  came  into  the  other's  face. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  209 

"  God  knows  I  ban't  a  preacher.     But  there  'tis." 

''  She  can't  go  back  to  him  now,  surely  —  not  if  she 
would.  And,  of  course,  slie  wouldn't  —  a  proud  woman 
like  her.  She  chucked  him  once  and  for  all.  I'm  only 
a  common  man,  and  I  ban't  going  to  flout  my  chance 
of  luck  no  more.  I  want  her,  and  I've  saved  her  life, 
and  there's  a  lot  of  good  reasons  why  she  should  come 
into  my  keeping.  She's  free,  and  she  knows  that  Snow 
be  free.  And  presently  he'll  come  home  a  rich  man. 
There's  nothing  hid  from  her,  and,  of  course,  there's  no 
reason  why  she  should  take  me  if  she  don't  want  to." 

His  grandfather  nodded   doubtfully. 

'*  I'd  dearly  like  to  see  it.  You  and  me  be  all  alone 
in  the  world,  and  'twould  be  a  very  fine  thing  to  feel 
the  Redstone  race  was  going  on  steady  afore  I  dropped." 

"Why  for  not?  She  knows  me  well  enough.  I'm 
not  the  sort  to  take  an  imsporting  advantage;  but  no 
more  am  I  the  sort  to  lose  a  chance.  T'other  chap  half 
hated  her  when  she  chucked  him,  and  hate  can't  die 
in  a  minute,  even  when  it  finds  itself  mistook.  Life's 
life,  not  just  messing  about  waiting  for  other  people  to 
do  things.  I  be  going  to  do  things  myself.  I'd  make 
a  proper  husband  for  her,  and  I'm  going  to  get  Drusilla 
to  see  it  if  I  know  how.  I  had  enough  pain  to  bear 
when  she  w^ouldn't  take  me  before,  after  I  thought  she 
was  going  to,  and  I  won't  lose  her  again  —  not  if  my  wit 
or  work  can  rise  to  winning  her." 

"  So  long  as  you'm  sporting,  Johnny  — " 

"  Trust  me  for  that,  grandfather." 

"  Of  course,"  continued  Jacob,  "  the  chap  may  not  be 
dead.  He  must  have  rode  ofif  somewhere  after  he  left 
you.  He  was  ever  a  dark  and  mysterious  old  blid,  and 
he  may  be  in  hiding,  or  he  may  have  gone  after  Timothy 
to  hale  him  back,  or  some  such  deed.  But  for  my  part 
I'm  pretty  sure  he's  met  with  a  fatal  mishap,  and  be 
gone  from  the  ranks  of  living  men." 

"  No  doubt  you'm  right,  my  old  dear :  he's  met  with 
a  fatal  mishap  —  be  sure  of  it.  A  proper  splutter  he'll 
make  on  the  Dowl's  grid-iron !     And  as  for  us,  Drusilla 


210  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

or  no  Drusilla,  Timothy  Snow's  not  like  to  turn  us  away, 
nor  would  his  sister  either.  Drusilla  had  chucked  the 
man  once  for  all,  for  her  own  reasons,  which  were  doubt- 
less good  enough ;  and  he'd  swallowed  it  as  best  he  could, 
and  gone  out  of  the  country.  Like  enough  he  won't 
come  back.     Why  should  he  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

It  was  Audrey  Leaman  who  indirectly  found  the  dust  of 
the  dead.  She  escaped,  indeed,  the  horror  of  actual  dis- 
covery, but  her  act  led  another  to  it. 

There  fell  a  day  when  her  friends  all  failed  her,  and 
she  went  out  to  pick  blackberries  alone.  Life  with  her 
was  eventful,  and  she  moved,  as  ever,  on  the  borders 
of  romance ;  but  none  as  yet  had  won  her,  or  could 
claim  to  be  higher  than  another  in  her  esteem.  All  men 
interested  her,  and  their  protestations  pleased  her,  and 
their  company  rejoiced  her.  To  pick  blackberries  alone 
depressed  her,  yet  it  happened  that  not  a  man  or  even 
a  boy  or  girl  was  available  for  company.  Only  her 
great  hovmd  accompanied  her.  She  began  listlessly  on 
the  heather  slopes  above  Yarner,  then,  convinced  that 
there  would  be  more  and  better  fruit  within  the  clearings 
of  the  woods,  entered  them,  sat  down  by  the  old  granite 
tram  line,  whence  Timothy  Snow  had  departed  for  the 
last  time  from  the  forest,  and  retraced  the  position  with 
respect  to  him.  Now  that  he  was  gone  for  good  she 
declared  to  herself  that  she  would  have  married  him, 
and  that  she  liked  him  better  than  any  man  of  all  the 
many  men  she  knew.  However,  for  the  present  he  had 
passed  out  of  her  life  and  might  never  return  into  it. 
On  the  other  hand,  when  he  sent  home  his  own  destina- 
tion, and  when  definite  news  of  his  uncle's  disappearance 
and  aunt's  ill  health  should  reach  him,  it  was  probable 
that  he  might  return.  Audrey  hoped  that  he  would 
do  so. 

The  theory  of  Lot's  death  established  by  the  police 
was  now  accepted.  All  men  judged  that  he  had  been 
thrown  from  his  pony  into  some  deep  pit  or  gully  on 
the  high  moor  about  the  regions  of  Hey  Tor  or  Trendle- 
bere  Down.     A  search  was  continued  daily,  but  had  not 


212  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

as  yet  revealed  his  body  or  furnished  any  clue.  Only 
one  man  associated  Timothy  with  the  mystery,  but  he  at 
present  held  his  peace.  Yet  it  was  to  him  that  the 
news  of  Audrey's  discovery  first  came,  and  he  acted 
upon  it. 

She  sat  now,  some  time  after  noon,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  wide  woods  beneath  her.  Pheasants  were  call- 
ing close  at  hand,  and  presently,  with  a  mighty  hubbub, 
a  cock  got  up  and  rattled  off.  His  splendour  flashed  past 
within  ten  yards  of  Audrey  and  made  her  jump.  Yarner 
sank  beneath,  like  a  mighty  cup  of  jade  set  in  amethyst, 
for  the  heather  slopes  towered  round  the  forest  to  north, 
south,  and  west,  and  the  great  wood  sank  gradually  below 
them  by  plane  upon  plane  of  trees  to  a  dark,  deep  centre, 
where  shadowy  glens  broke  the  light  of  the  foliage  and 
a  river  ran.  The  water  murmured  up  from  the  bottom, 
and  a  breeze  set  a  hard  glitter  upon  the  birches,  where 
they  wound,  a  ragged  silver  ribbon,  through  the  duller 
verdure  of  the  woods.  As  yet  no  faintest  flame  signal 
of  autumn  had  touched  the  beeches,  those  first  forest 
heralds  of  the  great  change,  but  the  heather  was  be- 
ginning to  fade  to  a  pale  brown  preceding  the  sere,  and  its 
bells  already  uttered  a  crisp  stridulation  when  brushed 
by  the  wind. 

Beneath  the  hill,  rising  above  a  dense  jungle  of  birch 
and  oak,  ascended  the  chimney  of  the  ruined  mine. 
Its  summit  was  bright  with  a  green  chaplet  of  fern ; 
and  above  it  there  hovered  a  great  hawk.  He  settled 
presently  and  crowned  the  ruin  with  the  symbol  of  the 
sun. 

Audrey  yawned,  took  out  a  love-letter  from  her  pocket, 
and  read  how  young  Champernowne,  then  a  lad  of  nine- 
teen, was  prepared  to  run  away  with  her,  marry  her  at 
a  registrar's,  and  brave  the  anger  of  his  father.  His 
grandfather,  he  assured  her,  would  not  mind  in  the 
least. 

He  implored  her  to  meet  him  on  the  following  day 
at  the  cottage  where  Drusilla  and  her  aunt  had  lived. 
It  was  empty  now  and  offered  a  safe  tryst.     They  would 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  213 

marry  and  go  to  France  for  a  while  until  his  father's 
anger  was  dulled.  She  smiled  at  this  proposal,  but  felt 
unattracted  by  it.  Eustace  Champernowne  —  a  youth 
with  a  poetic  temperament  and  high  ideals  of  woman  — 
had  taught  her  a  great  many  things  and  was  wildly  in 
love  with  her;  but  she  cared  little  for  him,  though  the 
unwisdom  he  proposed  offered  a  mild  temptation  to  her. 
Her  special  friend  at  this  moment  happened  to  be  a  post- 
man. He  was  unhappily  married  to  a  woman  ten  years 
older  than  himself,  and  his  chains  had,  of  late,  galled  him 
raw.  He  confessed  his  trovibles  to  Audrey,  and  basked 
in  the  warmth  of  her  pity.  This  man  gladly  would  have 
deserted  his  wife  for  her. 

Audrey  spoke  to  her  Great  Dane,  "  Battle,"  who  sat 
beside  her  with  his  tongue  out  and  his  sulky  eyes  blink- 
ing up  at  the  sun. 

"  What  would  happen  if  I  went  off  with  Tom  Blake? 
Would  they  stop  him  being  postman?  I  expect  they 
would.  They  wouldn't  trust  people's  letters  to  a  man 
that  chucked  his  wife.  All  the  same,  he's  about  as  in- 
teresting and  fearless  a  chap  as  ever  I  met.  He'd  get 
tired  of  me,  no  doubt.  But  we'd  have  a  good  time 
first.  Why  don't  I  ivant  to  marry  somebody?  'Tis  a 
beastly  disgraceful  thing,  I  suppose,  that  I  don't.  'Tis 
the  instinct  in  me.  I'd  make  a  proper  lover,  but  a  terri- 
ble poor  wife.  I've  seen  men  I  should  like  to  love  me ; 
but  I've  never  seen  the  man  I  should  like  to  have  chil- 
dren by.  My  mother  says  that's  the  test :  and  if  you 
don't  feel  as  if  you'd  like  to  have  a  man  for  father  to 
a  child,  then  you  don't  love  him  But  I  —  No,  never. 
No  childer  for  me !  I'd  sooner  look  after  any  other 
young  things  than  them." 

She  analysed  her  feelings  without  sentiment,  and 
smiled  at  her  own  heart.  She  pictured  her  ideal  and 
found  it  a  composite. 

"  I'd  have  Fred  Moyle's  moustache  and  Tom  Blake's 
eyes  and  Master  Eustace's  hands  and  grand  way  of 
love-making.  Lord !  I  might  be  a  princess  to  see  him 
boAV  afore  me !     And  I'd  have  Johnny  Redstone's  don't- 


214  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

care-a-damn  fashion  of  looking  at  life,  and  Tim  Snow's 
cold,  scornful  cleverness.  But  you  like  Redstone  best, 
don't  you,  my  Battle  boy?  Redstone's  eyes  be  very  like 
yours,  for  that  matter,  and  he's  so  plucky  as  you,  but 
not  so  patient.  And  when  all's  said,  if  I  got  the  best 
all-round  chap  in  the  world,  I'd  be  tired  to  death  of 
him  after  a  bit.  And  a  change-loving  sort  of  girl  like 
me  oughtn't  to  marry  anybody.  And  when  I  do,  'tis  any 
odds  'twill  be  for  convenience  and  freedom  —  not  for 
love.  Marry  for  anything  —  anything  but  that!  If  I 
ever  love  a  man  right  down  mad-like,  I  swear  I'll  love 
him  too  well  to  marry  him  and  ruin  his  life  sooner  or 
later." 

She  stretched  herself,  yawned  again,  and  rubbed  her 
cheek  against  her  hound's  muzzle. 

"  A  woman  like  me  ought  to  wed  a  fool,"  she  said, 
"  then  I  should  please  him  all  the  time  and  never  worry 
him ;  and  he  wouldn't  worry  me.  All  the  men  I've  ever 
met  with  be  jealous  at  bottom,  so  far  as  I  can  see  —  all 
except  Redstone ;  and  he  hadn't  no  call  to  be,  because 
he  never  cared  a  button  about  me,  though  I  took  a  bit 
of  trouble  to  make  him.  And  now,  seemingly,  he's  got 
the  girl  he  wanted  —  though  a  little  bird  says  she  did  try 
to  starve  herself  to  death  for  love  of  somebody  else. 
Fancy  doing  that !  As  if  any  one  living  man  was  worth 
dying  for,  when  there  are  so  many ! " 

Audrey  fell  to  thinking  upon  Drusilla,  and  to  wondering 
if  she  would  marry  Redstone.  The  story  went  that  Dru- 
silla had  gone  to  Dury  so  ill  that  her  life  was  threatened. 
Redstone  had  claimed  the  authority  of  an  old  friend,  and 
kept  her  in  his  house  and  saved  her  life. 

"  If  she  takes  the  red  man,  my  old  Battle,  then  how 
will  it  be?  They  all  say  Lot  Snow  must  be  dead,  so  no 
doubt  he  is.  And  presently  Tim  will  have  all  that  he 
was  meant  to  have,  without  the  trouble  of  marrying  me 
—  the  jam  without  the  powder.  And  I  shall  never 
marry  at  all,  very  like ;  and  more  won't  he  if  Drusilla's 
gone.  So  his  land  and  mine  will  never  join,  and  I'll  be 
a    farmer  on   mv   own   when    father   and   mother  sfo  — 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  215 

unless  father  cuts  me  off  with  a  shilling  for  some  love 
caper  or  other  before  the  time  comes." 

For  a  moment  she  felt  contempt  at  herself  for  this 
futile  eroticism. 

"  Life's  interesting  and  flat  by  turns,"  she  said  to  the 
hound  presently.  "  Tis  a  thousand  pities  I  can't  do 
nothing  but  run  after  the  men  and  make  'em  dance  after 
A  me.  There  ought  to  be  something  else  worth  doing. 
Picking  blackberries !  A  silly  fool  I  am  —  for  all  Eus- 
tace Champernowne  swears  Fm  so  clever.  What  a  lark 
if  I  let  him  take  me,  and  comed  to  be  mistress  of  Yarner 
some  day !  " 

She  cleaned  her  dog's  eyes,  and  rubbed  her  hand  on  his 
coat. 

"  I  am  clever,  all  the  same  —  clever  enough  to  read  the 
men's  looks.  You  can  larn  a  lot  about  'em  from  out- 
side; and  you  can  see  into  'em,  too.  They  be  like  the 
highway  robbers ;  they  don't  say  '  Your  money  or  your 
life!'  But  their  eyes  say,  'Your  body  or  your  life!' 
while  their  lips  twaddle  about  your  beautiful  soul.  Much 
they  care  for  souls,  before  they've  got  too  old  for 
anything  more  interesting!  Sometimes  I  think  'twould 
be  a  fine  thing  to  keep  'em  hungry  for  ever  —  and  leave 
'em  hungry,  and  die  a  maid.  Only  —  only  —  they'd 
never  believe  it,  and  Fd  get  no  credit.  They  don't  be- 
lieve it  now  —  some  of  'em.  Another  thing:  I  shall  be 
old  and  withered  in  ten  years'  time." 

She  became  depressed. 

"  H  you  bore  yourself,  'tis  a  sure  sign  you're  a  fool,  and 
I  do  bore  myself  something  shocking,  so  I  am  a  fool 
after  all.  Come  on,  Battle,  my  own  darling ;  Fll  pick 
blackberries,  and  be  a  fool,  and  marry  another,  and 
breed  a  pack  more !  You'll  carry  my  little  ones  on  your 
back  yet,  if  you  live  a  few  year  longer.  Then  you'll 
repent  as  much  as  I  shall." 

She  rose,  sank  into  the  woods,  passed  a  grove  of 
birches,  and  found  herself  presently  beside  the  ruins  of 
the  mine.  Briars  wound  thickly  about  it,  and  black- 
berries grew  ripe  on  every  side.     She  plucked  and  then. 


2i6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

dragging  aside  a  bramble  to  reach  fruiting  canes  beyond, 
there  fell  a  large,  black  object  from  among  the  thorns 
that  had  held  it,  and  she  saw  something  very  familiar  to 
all  residents  of  Ilsington. 

It  was  Lot  Snow's  great  hat  —  a  soft  "  wide-awake  " 
with  a  very  large  brim. 

Audrey  became  frightened,  and  looked  no  further; 
but  she  picked  up  the  hat  and  hurried  away  with  it.  She 
made  haste  to  get  out  of  sight  of  the  mine ;  then  she  sat 
down  and  considered  what  next  she  should  do. 

It  seemed  certain  that  Mr.  Snow  must  have  come  to 
harm  here  in  the  woods.  She  decided  quickly  that  she 
would  tell  Mr.  Moyle  of  her  discovery.  A  reward  of 
twenty-five  pounds  had  been  offered  for  news  of  Lot 
Snow,  and  Audrey  felt  pleased  that  Frederick  should 
have  it.  Now  she  hid  the  hat  in  her  basket,  returned 
home  and  told  none  of  her  discovery,  lest  they  should 
anticipate  the  policeman ;  but  presently  she  went  to  see 
Mr.  Moyle,  walked  with  him  after  dark,  and  handed  the 
hat  to  him. 

He  was  much  excited,  and  made  her  swear  to  secrecy 
for  the  present.  But  carefully  he  hid  from  her  the 
things  in  his  mind.  He  had  from  the  first  entertained 
a  private  theory  of  Mr.  Snow's  disappearance.  He  be- 
lieved that  if  accidental  death  had  overtaken  the  old 
man,  his  corpse  must  long  ago  have  yielded  to  the  search 
for  it.  But  as  yet  no  sign  had  appeared,  and  Moyle 
suspected,  therefore,  that  he  must  have  been  hidden  by 
those  responsible  for  his  death.  He  had  already  made 
private  search  in  many  places,  and  now,  by  the  light  of 
this  clue,  redoubled  his  secret  exertions  —  with  the  result 
that  he  found  the  hidden  body. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Drusilla  walked  on  the  land  with  Jacob  Redstone.  They 
were  alone,  for  John  had  ridden  off  at  an  early  hour 
from  Dury  about  private  business.  Indeed,  he  made  a 
mystery  of  it,  and  would  tell  them  nothing  of  his  destina- 
tion. 

"  I  shall  be  in  sight  of  Yarner  at  any  rate,  and  that's 
all  you  shall  hear  till  I  come  back  along,"  he  declared. 

And  this  saying  of  his  had  awakened  a  responsive  echo 
in  Drusilla's  mind  and  set  her  brooding.  Her  heart  had 
gone  out  to  John's  aged  grandfather,  and  she  found  that 
she  could  say  many  things  to  him  not  possible  to  speak 
to  the  younger  man.  And  now  she  uttered  intimate 
thoughts  to  Jacob,  and  he  listened  with  sympathy  and 
understanding,  and  spoke  to  her  of  vital  matters  also. 

They  stood  where  Dart  skirted  the  farm  fields  and 
lifted  her  melodious  voice  to  the  morning. 

"  I'm  glad  John  is  off  for  a  bit,"  she  said,  "  for  I  want 
a  tell  with  you,  Mr.  Redstone.  I'm  grown  very  restless 
of  late,  and  feel  a  calling  to  be  away  and  to  work. 
There's  nothing  hid  between  us,  for  God  knows  you've 
been  tender  as  a  woman  to  me,  and  I  think  I've  got  to 
thank  you  as  much  as  John.  He  saved  my  life,  but 
you've  done  the  rest  and  made  me  want  to  live." 

"  And  him,  too.  Don't  say  'tis  only  me.  You  couldn't 
do  no  rash  act  again,  Drusilla,  not  now  you  know  there's 
such  a  lot  of  people  in  the  world  want  for  you  to  go  on 
living.  Besides,  the  wickedness.  I  ban't  a  preacher 
myself,  being  the  faultiest  man  I  ever  met  save  two; 
but  to  go  out  of  it  —  oh  no,  to  kill  yourself  —  that's 
all  wrong.  'Tis  to  go  to  heaven  afore  you  get  your  in- 
vitation, you  see  —  so  bad  as  turning  up  at  a  party 
where  you  wasn't  axed.     But  that's  over  and  done  with, 

217 


2i8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  none  the  wiser  but  me  and  John,  and  you  be  going 
to  live  a  long,  useful  life  and  see  your  children's  children, 
I  hope  —  as  I  have.  And,  come  you  take  living  in  a 
large,  easy  spirit,  and  never  cry  over  what  can't  be 
mended,  but  put  your  heart  and  soul  into  what  can, 
then  you'll  get  your  fill  of  life  and  find  'tis  better  to  have 
lived  than  not  —  as  I  do." 

"  You're  such  a  laughter-lover,  and  can  see  the  bright 
side  of  things  in  a  way  beyond  the  power  of  most." 

"  I  had  to  do  it.  I  had  to  ferret  and  forage  for  the 
bright  side  for  years  and  years.  It  didn't  seek  me  — 
no,  nor  yet  thrust  itself  upon  me.  It  took  a  terrible  lot 
of  finding  —  real  hard  work,  you  might  say.  But  it 
growed  to  be  a  habit  to  look  for  it,  and  the  more  de- 
termined you  be  to  seek  it,  the  more  easy  it  comes  to 
find.  There  was  a  tramp  taught  me  a  lot  in  that  way. 
A  lazy  dog,  and  dead  these  years  and  years  now.  Died 
laughing,  you  might  say  —  by  the  roadside  out  Merripit 
Hill.  Laughed  at  work,  laughed  at  forty  shilling  or  a 
month,  laughed  at  the  Justices  of  the  Peace,  laughed  at 
life,  and,  when  it  came,  laughed  at  death.  I  sometimes 
think,  when  I  go  through  Postbridge  churchyard,  that 
I  hear  him  laughing  yet  in  his  nameless  grave.  We've 
laughed  together  scores  o'  dozens  of  times  —  him  and 
me.     And  you'll  larn  to  laugh  a  little  at  last." 

"  You  and  your  grandson  and  your  granddaughter  have 
been  amazing  good.  And  now  I'm  going  to  pay  you 
back  by  going  into  the  world  again  to  be  useful.  I'm 
well  and  strong  and  hearty,  and  hungering  for  work. 
Why  —  I  never  guessed  how  lazy  I'd  been  all  my  life  till 
I  talked  along  with  Mercy  French  and  heard  what  she'd 
done  from  her  youth  up." 

"  Work's  all  right.  I'd  never  stand  between  any  young 
thing  and  work,  I'm  sure.  'Tis  very  good  food  and  very 
good  physic  both ;  but  there's  a  time,  when  you  come  to 
my  age,  that  your  work's  your  play.  Because  I'm  too  far 
gone  in  the  joints  and  back  muscles  now  to  stand  to  work 
like  a  man,  so  I  come  to  it  just  for  delight  and  amuse- 
ment.    I  love  to  toddle  about  behind  the  bosses  still,  or 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  219 

pretend  I'm  digging  the  taters  or  what  not.  And  only 
too  sorry  I  feel  when  the  flesh  nips  me  and  says, 
'  Steady,  old  bones !  you  can't  do  that  sort  of  thing  no 
more,  else  you'll  crack  and  fall,  and  have  to  go  out  on 
the  rubbish  heap  with  the  other  broken  cloam ! '  "  He 
chuckled  at  the  image. 

"  You're  a  wonder.  Never  did  an  old  man  do  so 
much." 

"  Don't  you  praise  me.  I  can't  stand  praise.  No,  I 
can't  stand  praise  no  more  than  some  horses  can  carry 
corn.  It  gets  in  my  head  like  liquor.  You  praise  John 
—  that's  the  way  to  please  me.  He  is  a  bit  of  a  wonder, 
he  is !     There  never  was  a  better,  in  my  opinion." 

The  simple  old  man  began  to  sing  the  virtues  of  his 
grandson,  and  Drusilla  did  the  like.  But  there  was  a 
restraint  about  her  and  a  restless  attitude  of  mind  that 
soon  silenced  Jacob. 

"  Talk  about  yourself,"  he  said  presently.  "  Us  don't 
hear  enough  about  your  thoughts  and  purposes.  We've 
spoke  sufficient  about  Johnny.  Now  tell  an  old  man,  as 
loves  you  very  well,  how  'tis  with  you,  and  what  you  be 
planning  in  your  head  for  the  future.  And  then  I'll  talk 
to  you,  because  you  must  know  that  us  Redstones  be 
going  to  have  a  hand  in  your  future  whatever  'tis ;  and 
you  needn't  think  to  cold-shoulder  us  if  you  leave  Dury, 
because  we  won't  suffer  it." 

"  I'll  pray  for  your  good  every  time  I  go  on  my  knees, 
Mr.  Redstone  —  for  you  and  John  and  Mercy  and  her 
children,  too.  I'm  grateful,  God  knows  that.  You've 
nursed  me  back  into  life  and  made  me  content  to  live, 
and  who  else  would  have  done  more,  or  half  as  much? 
But  now,  as  I  said,  I'm  strong  and  hearty,  and  life's 
calling.  There's  my  sticks,  what  poor  Aunt  Widger  left 
me,  and  twenty  pounds  a  year.  Quite  well-to-do,  you 
see.  But  I  must  empty  the  cottage  at  Yarner  and  sell 
the  things,  for  they  be  useless  to  me;  and  then  I  shall 
go  into  the  world  and  take  a  place.  I  thought  to  go  in 
a  hospital,  if  Sir  Percy  Champernowne  could  help  me  and 
tell  me  how  'tis  to  be  done." 


220  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  You !  A  wild  bird  like  you  shut  up  in  bricks  and 
mortar  with  sick  folk !  'Tis  a  fine,  useful  idea,  I  grant, 
but  not  for  you.  You'm  too  much  of  a  wood  girl. 
You'd  pine  and  droop  and  go  out  altogether  if  you  was 
took  away  from  the  open  country  and  the  forests.  You 
don't  like  it  up  here,  I  know  —  too  bleak  and  savage  for 
'e ;  but  you'm  trained  up  to  live  in  a  wood  and  — " 

"  'Tis  true,"  she  interrupted.  "  How  you  understand ! 
You  find  things  out  that  I'd  never  have  the  courage  to 
speak,  because  they  sound  so  silly.  But  'tis  strangely 
true  —  stupidly  true,  you  might  say.  I'm  shamed  of 
myself,  but  oh !  what  it  means  to  me  —  Yarner !  My 
mind's  turning  to  it  —  misery  and  agony  and  all.  Yarner 
was  my  life,  you  see.  Everything  —  everything  —  the 
good  and  evil  and  happiness  and  suffering  and  everything 
in  my  whole  short  days  was  crammed  into  Yarner.  And 
now  it's  all  fallen  away  —  and  the  good  and  evil  both  — 
and  I  feel  like  a  naked  thing  torn  out  of  its  shell.  I  long 
to  get  back  and  move  in  the  woods,  and  hide  in  the 
woods.  You'd  never  think  it  after  what  has  happened. 
I  can't  believe  it  myself,  but  it  is  true.  I  felt  first  that 
I'd  never  bear  to  look  on  the  place  again  —  and  that  was 
natural,  surely,  after  what  it  meant  to  me  —  all  my  early 
happy  days,  and  father  dying,  and  then  —  love  and  loss 
and  the  horror — " 

She  stopped,  for  Jacob  Redstone  knew  nothing  of  how 
Lot  Snow  had  perished. 

"  Human  nature's  that  full  of  surprises,"  he  answered, 
"  you  can't  speak  a  positive  word  about  your  own  future 
thoughts,  much  less  about  another  body's.  I'd  have 
reckoned,  now,  as  you'd  never  have  no  more  use  for  Yar- 
ner. My  boy  felt  to  hate  every  tree  in  the  wood  when 
you  —  but  maybe  that's  different  now,  I  hope?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  this  sudden  change  of  topic,  and 
Jacob,  believing  that  this  was  the  happiest  moment  for 
the  attack,  began  to  talk  very  earnestly  of  his  grandson. 

"A  cruel,  ticklish  subject  for  an  outsider;  but  I  don't 
feel  to  be  that  ezacally  —  not  now.  There's  nought  like 
illness  for  getting  to  know  people.     They've  got  their 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  221 

armour  off  then,  and  some  be  at  their  best  when  they  be 
sick,  and  some,  I'm  sure,  be  hateful.  But  you  was  brave 
and  patient  and  long-suffering." 

"  Well  I  might  be,  considering  how  I  came  to  be  ill." 

"  Drusilla,"  he  said  very  earnestly,  "  let  me  put  in  a 
good  word  for  John.  You  know  how  'tis  with  him. 
He's  burning  away,  you  might  say,  for  love  of  you ;  but 
there's  a  fear  in  him  that  it  wouldn't  be  sporting  to  say 
any  word  on  that  score  so  long  as  you  bide  under  his 
roof.  O  Drusilla,  why  for  don't  you  bide  altogether, 
and  find  your  work  here,  instead  of  along  with  strangers  ? 
What  stands  against  it?  You  know  the  pattern  of  the 
man,  and  you  know  the  pattern  runs  through.  He's  fiery, 
and  he's  fierce,  and  he's  a  terrible  stickler  for  justice  and 
all  that.  He's  not  one  of  they  bread-and-butter  sort  of 
men  who  always  do  right,  because  'tis  too  much  trouble 
to  do  wrong.  He's  a  man  with  good  and  evil  mixed  up 
in  him  —  like  us  all.  But  he  do  love  you  something  tre- 
mendous, and  if  you'd  only  seen  him  when  you  had  to 
say  '  no '  long  ways  ago  —  if  you  had  only  marked  how 
it  struck  to  the  very  roots  of  him  and  cast  him  to  the 
earth  and  darkened  all  his  days  —  if  you'd  noted  one  half 
of  his  grief  and  pain,  I'm  very  sure  you'd  have  felt  it 
was  a  very  real  love  he  had  for  you." 

"  I  never  doubted  that." 

"And  well  you  know  that  'tis  just  the  same  as  ever  it 
was." 

"  Well  I  do  know  it.  He  found  me  dying.  Some  men 
would  have  left  me  to  die  —  there  are  reasons  why  it 
would  have  been  far  wiser  of  him,  I  daresay." 

She  stopped  and  reflected.  Had  she  died,  not  one  soul 
in  the  world  would  know  the  thing  that  John  had  done. 
She  imagined  that  some  men,  faced  with  an  alternative  of 
preserving  a  witness  to  their  crime,  or  suffering  that  wit- 
ness—  already  moribund  —  to  perish,  would  have  taken 
no  step  to  save  her.  But  certainly  the  murderer  of  Lot 
Snow  had  felt  no  temptation  in  that  dilemma.  He  loved 
her  with  all  his  soul;  and  now,  before  Jacob's  plea,  she 
asked  herself  what  she  felt  to  him. 


222  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Life,  as  she  returned  into  it,  seemed  more  difficult  than 
before.  Its  issues  were  enormously  complicated.  She 
meant  to  live,  but  her  heart  sank  before  the  problems 
now  crying  for  solution.  Her  desire  was  to  evade  all 
matter  that  needed  thought,  to  return  to  the  theatre  of 
the  past  and  see  whether  the  old  scenes  would  content  as 
of  yore,  and  show  the  way  to  peace.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  they  could;  yet  her  instinct  implied  that  they  might 
do  so,  and  her  spirit  clamoured  for  them.  She  little 
liked  the  Moor,  and  such  woods  as  she  had  roamed  in 
by  the  lower  gorges  of  Dart  served  only  to  remind  her  of 
Yarner.     But  they  could  not  take  its  place. 

Towards  John  Redstone  her  attitude  was  involved  and 
difficult  to  unravel.  Until  now  she  had  avoided  the 
problem,  feeling  too  weak  to  face  it ;  but  at  last  it  cried  to 
be  approached.  Gratitude  and  common-sense  demanded 
a  solution,  and  sentiment  almost  inclined  her  towards  one 
that  might  rejoice  him.  Then  the  altered  situation  with 
respect  to  Timothy  dreadfully  tempted  her  to  wait  and 
see  w4iat  he  might  do.  She  had  expected  for  some  weeks 
to  hear  of  him ;  and  indeed  she  would  have  done  so,  but 
for  the  accident  of  Sibella  Snow's  illness.  Now,  there- 
fore, hope  fainted  with  respect  to  the  vanished  Timothy, 
and  Drusilla  remembered  that  he  had  left  her  in  anger. 
At  first  she  had  supposed  that,  with  his  uncle's  death,  it 
would  prove  possible  to  confess  her  course  of  action  and 
let  Timothy  understand  why  she  had  denied  him ;  but 
it  already  looked  more  difficult.  She,  at  least,  could  not 
take  the  first  step,  and  even  had  her  old  lover  been  at 
hand  to  hear,  she  doubted  whether  she  would  have  told 
him  the  truth.  But  he  was  gone,  and  though  he  must 
have  written  before  the  present,  he  had  not  written  to 
her,  nor  apparently  sent  her  any  message.  There  re- 
mained the  possibility  of  telling  the  Redstones,  but  here 
sentiment  and  her  own  undecided  emotions  silenced  her. 
She  felt  very  tenderly  to  the  man  who  had  saved  her  life. 
She  recognised  the  size  of  the  obligation,  for  it  was  not 
merely  the  act  of  salvation  that  counted,  though  that,  seen 
in  the  light  of  the  murder,  stood  for  something,  but  also 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  223 

all  that  had  followed  through  the  weeks  of  nursing  and 
patient  care  poured  out  upon  her.  She  had  a  ready 
imagination ;  she  possessed  the  power  to  see  herself  from 
Redstone's  standpoint,  and  was  thus  able  to  appreciate  his 
attitude.  It  spoke  of  a  love  that  was  worth  possessing; 
it  indicated  distinction  of  mind  and  a  sunny  spirit  that 
could  find  pure  joy  in  the  welfare  of  another.  He  had 
made  no  explicit  love,  but  it  was  beyond  his  power  to 
hide  the  passion  in  him ;  it  was  beyond  his  power  to  keep 
away  from  her,  or  to  exhaust  his  ingenuity  in  lightening 
the  wearisome  weeks  of  convalescence.  She  marvelled 
sometimes  that  the  blood  on  his  hands  did  not  stain  her 
mind  when  she  thought  upon  him;  but  his  own  attitude 
to  the  death  of  Snow  already  influenced  hers.  He  made 
no  direct  attempt  to  do  so,  and  indeed  very  seldom  men- 
tioned the  subject,  though  the  mystery  that  enshrouded 
it  from  his  point  of  view  often  filled  his  thoughts ;  but  his 
lack  of  penitence,  his  escape  from  remorse  unconsciously 
affected  her. 

On  one  of  the  rare  occasions  when  he  alluded  to  the 
tragedy,  he  spoke  and  affected  her  more  than  she  appreci- 
ated at  the  time. 

"  'Tis  only  by  crying  out  morning,  noon,  and  night 
that  we  are  miserable  sinners,  we  get  ourselves  or  other 
people  to  believe  it,"  he  said.  "  And  I  don't  believe  it, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  pretend  I  do  —  even  to  you.  The 
sole  trouble  that  can  come  to  me  out  of  that  job  will  be 
if  they  find  out  I  did  it.  And  the  more  time  passes,  the 
less  I  fear  that  it  will  be  found  out.  His  thread  was  spun, 
and  my  work  was  to  cut  it,  and  I  did ;  and  I  don't  care 
no  more  than  the  wheel  cares,  that  runs  over  a  mouse  in 
the  dark.  And  you  don't  care  at  heart  no  more  than  I 
do.  'Tis  one  stinging  wasp  the  less  in  the  world,  and  the 
proof  of  the  pudding  lies  in  the  eating,  for  who  has 
dropped  a  tear,  or  sighed  a  sigh  to  know  he's  gone  ?  Not 
one  soul  —  unless  'twas  his  sister.  And  she's  only 
troubled,  they  say,  because  they  can't  find  the  man,  and 
bury  him  along  with  his  parents  in  the  graveyard  outside 
her  bedroom  window." 


224  THE  FOREST  OX  TITE  HILL 

Thus,  tlien,  it  stood  when  Jacob  spoke  with  Drusilla, 
and  made  her  believe  that  once  again  the  necessity  for 
definite  action  lay  before  her.  To  stop  John  before  he 
renewed  any  active  love-making  would  be  simple,  but  as 
she  emerged  from  her  lethargy,  gathered  up  the  reins  of 
her  life,  and  perceived  that  many  years  might  still  have 
to  be  lived,  she  doubted  whether  or  not  to  do  so.  Senti- 
ment made  her  hesitate,  and  the  more  she  examined  her 
OM'n  feeling  with  respect  to  John,  the  less  disposed  was 
she  to  utter  any  irrevocable  w-ord.  Her  illness  had 
played  pranks  with  time,  and  in  some  aspects  of  thought 
it  seemed  that  years  rather  than  weeks  had  sped  since 
Timothy  Snow^  went  out  of  her  life.  Memory  had  suf- 
fered not  a  little  under  the  physical  storm.  She  found 
herself  regarding  the  past  and  the  poignant  agonies  of 
the  past  through  a  heavy  veil  represented  by  her  grave 
illness ;  and  that  barrier  created  results  equivalent  to  the 
passing  of  much  time. 

To  tell  John  Redstone  now  why  she  had  refused  to 
marry  Snow  would  certainly  silence  him  for  ever ;  but  the 
desire  to  silence  him  w^as  doubtfully  alive.  Timothy 
spoke  not,  and  in  some  moods  she  resented  the  silence, 
while  at  times  of  saner  thinking,  she  perceived  that  to 
resent  it  was  unjust.  For  what  difference  had  his 
uncle's  death  made  to  their  separation?  All  that  the 
man  knew  was  that  she  had  thrown  him  over  without  a 
reason,  and,  so  far  as  she  was  aware,  he  could  not  asso- 
ciate that  reason  with  Lot  Snow. 

"  Does  John  really  want  me,  Mr.  Redstone?  "  she  asked 
of  Jacob  now.  There  had  fallen  a  long  silence  between 
them,  and  he  was  glad  that  she  did  not  speak  at  once, 
for  silence  argued  doubt,  and  where  doubt  filled  Drusilla's 
mind  there  was  still  hope  for  John. 

"  Want  you !  Be  there  any  need  to  answer  that  ques- 
tion? Do  a  cat  want  game  when  she  smelleth  it?  Do 
a  farmer  want  the  sunshine  when  his  hay's  down  ?  He 
worships  you  most  steadfast,  Drusilla,  and  he  would  do 
anvthing  in  the  power  of  his  strength  to  get  you  to  love 
him." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  225 

"  Don't  think  I  can't  see  the  size  of  my  debt.  Who 
could  help  loving  a  tnan  that  has  done  for  me  what  he 
has?" 

"  That's  all  right,  and  I'm  sure  you  feel  it,  but  that's  no 
use.  The  love  that  springs  from  gratitude  be  a  good 
staple,  but  'tisn't  the  grand  thing  that  rises  above  all  such 
trifles  as  service.  Gratitude  and  pity,  and  such  like, 
didn't  ought  to  decide  a  woman  to  go  over  to  a  man  lock, 
stock,  and  barrel  for  evermore." 

"  'Tis  all  that  some  can  ever  rise  to  feeling.  Many  a 
woman's  gone  to  a  man  just  from  being  flattered  that  he 
could  love  her.  A  humble  sort  of  girl  will  marry  the  first 
that  asks,  thankfully,  because  she's  so  terribly  surprised 
that  anybody  can  see  anything  in  her,  and  feels  the  least 
she  can  do  for  such  a  man  is  to  give  him  all  she's  got. 
Men  be  the  choosers  —  not  women.  We  —  most  of  us  — 
just  wait  and  watch  —  like  apples  on  a  bough  —  for  the 
hand  to  come  to  pluck.  And  few  make  more  resistance 
than  the  apple.  We  be  quite  willing  most  times  to  love 
any  male  thing  with  all  our  might  and  main,  if  he  gives 
us  the  chance." 

"  Don't  you  run  away  from  the  subject,"  said  Mr. 
Redstone,  and  strove  to  keep  her  to  it.  They  talked  on, 
and  she  promised  to  think  about  the  matter  and  impart 
her  further  ideas  to  Jacob. 

"  There's  always  surprises  where  there's  active  intel- 
lects," he  declared,  "  though  little  surprises  me  nowadays 
—  not  the  most  unlikely  things  don't  —  not  even  your 
saying  you  hanker  after  Yarner.  Belike  Yarner  haven't 
done  with  you  yet,  any  more  than  you've  done  with 
Yarner.  Time  will  show,  and  meanwhile  bear  in  mind 
all  I've  rattled  to  'e  —  sense  and  nonsense  both." 

"  I  shan't  forget,"  she  promised,  and  even  had  she 
wished  to  do  so,  chance  was  destined  to  remind  her  of 
her  own  words  and  Jacob's  before  that  day  was  done. 
John  Redstone  returned  at  evening  time,  and  spoke  long 
of  the  things  that  had  befallen  him. 

'*  To  Yarner  I've  been,"  he  said,  after  supper  was 
ended,  "  and  the  place  is  looking  fine.     First  man  I  met 


226  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

was  Saul  Butt,  and  he  told  me  why  I'd  been  sent  for. 
And  they  be  making  a  new  clearing  in  the  northern  wood. 
Then  1  go  to  Amos  Kingdon's  house,  and  there  he  is,  if 
you  please,  waiting  to  go  afore  Sir  Percy  with  me !  What 
came  next  you'll  guess.  In  a  word.  Sir  Percy's  very 
wishful  for  me  to  go  back  to  Yarner.  The  chap  they've 
had,  since  Snow  cleared  out,  ban't  no  good.  He  gets  ill 
and  can't  face  a  rainy  night,  and  just  now  the  pheasants 
be  turning  their  hair  grey,  for  never  was  such  a  lot 
knowed  in  Yarner  afore.  And,  in  a  word,  they  want 
me  back,  if  'tis  only  for  a  time." 

"  Funny  that  Drusilla  should  have  been  telling  about 
Yarner  this  very  morning,"  said  his  grandfather. 

"  Hates  the  name  of  the  place,  no  doubt." 

"  Not  at  all.  She's  like  a  cat  —  ban't  you,  my  dear  ? 
'Tis  the  place,  not  the  people,  that  draws  her." 

"  Good  Lord !     Would  you  go  back,  Drusilla  ?  " 

But  she  was  too  deeply  buried  in  her  own  thoughts  to 
hear  him.  Fate  seemed  to  be  willing  her  home  to  the 
woods. 

"  I've  got  a  message  for  you,  too,"  said  John  presently. 
"  Sir  Percy  has  a  tenant  for  your  old  home,  and  he's  wish- 
ing to  see  you  and  hear  about  your  future.  Your  goods 
must  be  took  out  at  Michaelmas,  because  Saul  Butt,  the 
woodman,  and  his  wife  and  baby  and  sister  be  going  to 
live  there  then.  And  if  I  go  back  'twould  be  to  the 
east  lodge,  Timothy's  old  house.  But  the  future's  all  in 
a  muddle  for  many  reasons.  I'm  told  as  Miss  Snow  to 
Ilsington,  Lot's  old  sister,  will  be  a  power  in  the  land  now. 
And  she'll  very  like  see  right  about  Dury,  and  let  us 
keep  it  after  all.  On  the  other  hand,  she  may  list  to 
Timothy,  and  us  can't  say  how  he'll  view  it.  He's  honest 
enough,  anyway.  But  there  'tis  —  I  don't  know  what 
to  do." 

"  How  was  Yarner  looking?  "  asked  Drusilla. 

"  Proper.  And  to  think  you  want  to  go  back !  Us'll 
talk  about  that  come  presently.  You'll  have  to  plan  my 
future  for  me,  I  reckon.  'Tis  the  least  you  can  do,  come 
to  think  of  it." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  227 

"  So  it  is,"  she  said,  but  with  no  smile.  "  Humans  can 
be  Hke  gods  to  one  another  sometimes,  and  do  miracles. 
You  took  my  life  in  your  hands,  and  kept  me  alive  when 
I  wanted  to  be  dead.  You  willed  me  to  go  on  living ;  and 
now  suppose  I  was  to  will  you  away  from  Dury  back  to 
Yarner?  " 

"  I'd  go,"  he  answered.  "  Your  will's  my  law  —  but 
what  about  you  ?  " 

Jacob,  perceiving  the  drift  of  the  argument,  rose  from 
his  seat  by  the  fire,  knocked  out  his  pipe,  and  shuffled  to 
bed ;  but  the  man  and  woman  advanced  their  imderstand- 
ing  very  little  after  he  had  gone.  Redstone  would  not 
push  the  matter  then,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  tired  and 
had  much  to  think  about ;  while  she,  feeling  indeed  mind- 
weary,  was  glad  to  postpone  the  inevitable  need  for  some 
decision  as  to  her  future  until  another  day. 

He  spoke  of  Yarner  to  please  her. 

"  Autumn's  touched  the  woods,"  he  said.  "  Just 
enough  to  swear  by  —  you  know  how  'tis.  The  white- 
thorn and  rowans  be  going  rosy-leaved,  and  the  dog- 
wood's near  black,  and  the  beech  has  a  touch  of  yellow 
to  it,  and  the  fern  be  turning  brown.  And  the  leaves 
falling  —  not  fast,  but  one  here,  one  there:  and  some- 
times a  score  at  a  time,  when  there  comes  a  puff  of 
wind." 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  I  know  —  just  floating  gently 
down,  sad-like.  They'll  rustle  past  my  ear  sometimes, 
and  touch  it  with  little  fingers,  and  whisper  as  they  go; 
and  sometimes  they'll  whirl  up  in  the  air  —  one  or  two 
together,  like  the  butterflies,  and  sometimes  they  fall  in 
the  rivers  and  float  away  out  of  Yarner  —  never,  never  to 
come  back  to  their  home  no  more." 

"  But  'tis  different  with  you,"  he  answered.  "  You 
can  go  back  so  soon  as  ever  you've  a  mind  to." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Fate  and  chance  conspired  to  delay  the  discovery  of 
Lot  Snow's  corpse.  Two  men,  indeed,  knew  where  it 
lay,  and  each,  for  his  own  purposes,  kept  that  knowledge 
a  secret.  Each,  indeed,  had  been  at  pains  to  make  the 
hiding-place  inviolate.  For  fear,  one  had  wrought ;  for 
hate,  the  other.  That  he  might  not  be  involved  in  this 
death,  since  life  promised  still  to  be  a  precious  thing, 
Timothy  Snow  had  concealed  his  uncle's  body ;  and  when 
Moyle,  after  close  search  over  that  lonely  ground,  dis- 
covered what  he  hungered  to  find,  he  linked  Timothy 
thereto  and  rejoiced.  But  instead  of  proclaiming  his 
triumph,  he  concealed  it  and  hid  the  body  still  more 
thoroughly.  There  was  no  immediate  haste  in  his  judg- 
ment ;  he  anticipated  events,  and  was  content  that  his 
enemy  should  come  securely  home  again  before  he  struck. 

Thus,  the  actual  murderer  of  Lot  Snow,  when  he 
thought  upon  the  matter,  continued  to  marvel  concerning 
the  place  of  the  dead  man ;  and  of  the  discoverers,  one, 
fearing  himself  threatened,  had  concealed  the  corpse ; 
and  the  second,  for  his  own  purposes  had  made  the  con- 
cealment perfect.  Like  a  dog  he  buried  bones,  to  dig 
them  up  when  he  needed  them. 

Frederick  Moyle  did  not  lack  for  intellect,  but  it  was 
allied  to  no  principle,  and  albeit  a  man  who  had  enlisted 
his  life  on  the  side  of  the  law,  no  more  lawless  spirit 
lived.  In  a  higher  sphere  he  would  have  used  his  powers 
to  base  ends,  and  suflFered  his  natural  tyrannous  instincts 
to  bear  fruit  under  the  snug  protection  offered  by  his 
business.  So  far  as  it  was  possible  for  a  village  police- 
man he  did  so,  and  afforded  a  minor  instance  of  the  evil 
that  must  result  where  a  foul  being  is  thrust  above  his 
fellows  and  entrusted  with  authority.     His  field,  however, 

228 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  229 

was  limited,  and,  but  for  the  fascination  exercised  over 
him  by  Audrey  Leaman,  he  had  long  since  wearied  of 
the  country  and  sought  a  wider  theatre  for  his  gifts. 
Now  events  conspired  to  offer  him  nearly  all  that  he  could 
have  wished  for  himself.  At  a  stroke  there  had  fallen 
into  his  hand,  not  only  power  over  the  man  he  hated,  but 
also  a  means  wherewith  brilliantly  to  challenge  the  atten- 
tion of  those  set  over  him,  and  make  good  his  claim 
to  promotion  and  higher  employment.  The  delay  gave 
him  exquisite  pleasure,  and  he  fed  and  fattened  on  antici- 
pation. Audrey  Leaman  alone  was  aware  of  his  labours, 
and,  for  the  present,  he  assured  her  that  no  success  had 
crowned  them.  He  made  much  of  her  discovery  to  please 
her,  and  declared  that  in  his  opinion  it  must  lead  to  more 
important  things.  He  explained  that,  in  the  intervals  of 
his  leisure,  he  was  conducting  secretly  a  search  that  must 
sooner  or  later  meet  with  its  full  reward ;  and  he  begged 
her,  if  she  cared  for  him,  and  desired  his  ultimate  tri- 
umph, to  keep  profoundly  silent  concerning  the  affair. 
She  believed  all  that  he  told  her,  and  the  matter  re- 
mained in  abeyance  while  Moyle  decided  how  most  effec- 
tively to  strike.  Assuming  Snow's  guilt,  he  judged  that 
Timothy  might  absent  himself  for  a  considerable  time ; 
but  he  guessed  that  when  all  fear  of  detection  wore 
away,  he  would  come  home  again  about  his  uncle's  affairs. 
And  then  it  was  that  Moyle  designed  to  pretend  sudden 
discovery  of  the  crime.  He  had  planned  his  line  of  as- 
sault, and  it  left  no  loophole,  for  Timothy  had  been  heard 
in  the  open  to  quarrel  with  his  uncle ;  he  had  been  seen 
to  follow  him ;  he  had  asked  Moyle  which  way  Lot  Snow 
wxnt  from  the  top  of  the  hill ;  he  had  been  guided  in  the 
right  direction  by  the  policeman.  All  this  was  common 
knowledge.  It  remained  for  Moyle  to  relate  how  he 
had  woven  his  theory  on  these  facts,  how  he  had  been 
led  to  the  actual  site  of  the  murder  by  Audrey  Leaman's 
discovery,  how,  after  long  search,  he  had  found  the  con- 
cealed remains  of  the  dead. 

The  matter  continued  to  interest   Ilsington,  and  the 
legal  aspect  of  the  situation  arose  one  evening  at  "  The 


230  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Coach  and  Horses,"  when  Willes  Leaman,  Moyle,  Seth 
Campion,  and  others  were  drinking  in  the  bar. 

"  One  may  tell  about  it  now,"  said  the  master  of 
Middlecot  to  Ned  Blackaller.     "  Now  the  old  man's  dead 

—  for  dead  I'm  positive  he  must  be  —  there's  no  great 
harm  in  me  letting  out  that  him  and  me  was  very  much 
set  on  my  girl  taking  his  nephew.  And  when  Timothy 
flouted  sense,  and  threw  up  everything  and  took  the  bit 
in  his  teeth  and  bolted,  though  I  never  saw  Lot  Snow 
again  after  the  quarrel,  I'm  very  sure  I  know  what  was 
in  the  man's  mind.  We'd  talked  of  it  afore.  He  meant 
to  cutt  off  Tim  with  a  shilling,  and  then  set  to  work  to 
find  a  better  and  a  wiser  sort  of  man  to  fill  his  place. 
And  since  he  thought  the  world  of  my  daughter,  Audrey, 
'tis  very  like  he'd  have  axed  her  to  help  his  choice." 

"  And  his  money  would  never  have  gone  to  his  nephew 

—  not  if  he'd  had  time  to  make  a  will,"  said  Moyle. 
"  That's  very  sure,  and  so  in  my  mind  I'm  with  you,  and 
believe  he's  dead,  for  he'd  have  looked  to  that  job  before 
anything  else." 

"  Dead,  no  doubt,"  admitted  Blackaller ,  ''  and  the 
rames  ^  of  him  will  appear  to  the  next  generation,  if  not 
to  this.  Such  a  hugeous  mountain  of  flesh  can't  be  hid 
for  ever,  unless  he's  failed  into  the  bowels  of  the  earth. 
And  meanwhile  how  stands  the  law,  Frederick?  'Tis 
said  there's  no  will  at  all,  and  his  next  of  kin  be  his 
sister,  old  Miss  Sibella,  and  his  nephew  over  the  water. 
Do  he  stand  now,  or  do  she  ?  " 

"  The  law's  very  clear,"  answered  Moyle,  "  and  I  took 
the  trouble  to  find  out  all  about  it.  You  must  know 
there's  such  a  thing  as  real  property,  and  then  again 
there's  such  a  thing  as  personal  property ;  and  real 
property  be  land  and  houses  and  such  like,  and  personal 
property  is  movables,  like  money  in  all  its  shapes  —  such 
as  cash  and  stock  and  shares  —  and  furniture  and  clothes 
and  all  that.     Do  I  make  my  meaning  clear?" 

"  Nothing  could  be  clearer,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

1  Raines,  skeleton. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  231 

"  'Tis  all  as  you  say,  Frederick,"  added  Willes  Lea- 
man. 

"  Well  then,  first  there's  the  real  property.  If  Lot 
Snow's  dead,  his  brother's  son,  that  is  Timothy  Snow, 
gets  it.  He's  heir  under  the  law,  and  entitled  to  every 
brick  and  blade  of  grass.  But  with  the  personal  property 
'tis  slightly  different  and  old  Sibella  comes  in  there.  She 
don't  get  all,  but  she  goes  share  and  share  with  the  dead 
man's  nephew.  He  ban't  sole  next  of  kin,  as  they  call 
it,  and  so  as  far  as  the  cash  and  things  be  concerned, 
him  and  his  aunt  take  halves.  Lot  Snow,  you  see,  had 
not  another  near  relative,  so  'tis  all  very  simple  indeed ; 
and  no  doubt,  when  Miss  Snow  dies,  she'll  hand  every- 
thing to  her  nephew,  unless  she  took  her  brother's  view 
of  him." 

"  He'll  come  home  to  administer  his  land  and  his 
houses,"  said  Blackaller ;  "  and,  very  like,  him  and  his 
mother  will  dwell  along  with  his  aunt  at  the  house  by 
the  lich-gate.     They  was  always  friendly." 

"  No,  Ned,  he  won't  handle  the  lands  and  houses  — 
for  why?  The  law  steps  in  there  again.  If  he  done 
that,  the  law  would  say,  *  Not  so  fast,  my  man.  We 
don't  know  yet  whether  your  uncle  be  dead  or  alive.'  " 

"  Just  so,"  declared  Mr.  Leaman.  "  'Tis  a  matter  of 
waiting  and  patience  —  unless  the  corpse  appeareth  be- 
yond shadow  of  doubt." 

"  Seven  years,"  continued  Moyle.  "  For  seven  years 
nothing  can  be  done.  All  must  bide  in  the  hands  of  the 
vanished  man's  lawyers,  and  all  must  go  on  just  as  if  he 
was  alive.  The  Court  must  grant  the  heir  leave  to  pre- 
sume death.  That's  the  hang  of  it.  But  the  law's  a 
cautious  creature,  and  you'll  not  find  it  jumping  to  any 
conclusion  in  a  hurry.  So  seven  years  must  pass,  unless 
some  skilful  detective  finds  the  dead  man,  or  accident 
gives  him  up  afore  that  time.  Timothy  and  his  aunt 
will  handle  nought  till  then." 

"  All  the  same,  since  Snow  be  the  only  creature  with 
any  claim  or  title  to  the  land  and  houses,  if  he  was  to 


232  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

take  possession  of  'em,  I  don't  see  who  could  turn  liim 
out,"  said  Blackaller. 

"  True,"  admitted  the  policeman.  "  I  doubt  in  that 
case  whether  the  law's  strong  enough  to  touch  the  man, 
and  'tis  certain  none  else  can ;  but,  since  old  Sibella  lived 
along  with  Lot  Snow,  she's  the  right  to  go  on  living  there 
for  seven  year,  and  she's  the  right  to  deny  possession  of 
the  house  to  Timothy  if  she  liked  to  do  it." 

"  The  last  thing  that  will  happen,  souls,"  said  Mr. 
Campion,  who  had  follow^ed  the  argument  as  closely  as 
his  deafness  would  permit.  "  She's  calling  out  for  him, 
and  cruel  wishful  for  the  young  man  to  come  home  and 
bide  with  her.  No  doubt  he  will  —  if  'tis  only  for  a 
time." 

"  She's  been  pretty  ill,  and  no  wonder,"  asserted 
Willes  Leaman.  "  My  daughter  has  dropped  in  times 
out  of  count  to  cheer  her  up ;  and,  since  my  Audrey  was 
a  very  great  favourite  with  Lot  Snow,  she  can  comfort 
the  man's  sister  more  than  any  other,  I  do  believe.  In 
fact,  it  wouldn't  surprise  me  if  Miss  Snow  was  to  re- 
member it  presently  under  her  will.  She's  a  grateful 
creature,  and,  whether  or  no,  can't  live  much  longer. 
This  come-along-of-it  has  shook  her  up  a  good  bit,  and 
doubtless  shortened  her  life.  The  old  can't  stand 
shocks." 

"  Lord,  Leaman !  wdiat  a  thousand  pities  it  is  that  all 
you  two  men  planned  could  not  be  carried  through,"  said 
Ned  Blackaller.  "  What  could  have  fitted  in  more  suent 
than  that  your  girl  and  young  Snow  should  have  failed 
in  love,  and  joined  up  Middlecot  and  all  that  land  above 
the  village  ?  " 

"  I  won't  say  I've  gived  up  all  hope,"  answered  the 
farmer.  "  You  see,  a  good  bit  have  failed  out  in  the 
past  month  or  two.  And  come  the  young  shaver  re- 
turns, and  finds  what  it  tastes  like  to  have  money  and 
property  and  a  stake  in  the  world,  his  silly  views  and 
opinions  may  change.  There's  nothing  to  whet  land- 
hunger  like  land,  or  house-hunger  like  houses.  You  give 
a  man  an  acre  of  earth,  and  he'll  very  soon  cast  about 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  233 

how  he  can  add  the  next  to  it.  He  must  seek  to  en- 
large his  borders  presently,  because  'tis  a  deep-rooted 
instinct  of  human  nature  to  do ;  and  so  Timothy  will 
look  round  and  see  his  luck,  and  find  that  there's  nought 
standing  between  him  and  my  place  but  the  prettiest 
woman  in  the  land." 

"  Don't  you  seek  that,"  cautioned  Moyle.  "  Don't  you 
seek  to  get  that  man  for  your  girl.  She's  a  million 
times  too  good  for  him,  as  well  I  know  —  but  no  doubt 
3^ou'll  think  I  haven't  forgived  him,  so  I'll  say  no  more. 
I  ban't  against  him  now,  but  I'm  all  for  the  girl's  happi- 
ness, and  she'd  never  be  happy  along  with  such  a  square- 
toes  as  him.  However,  I've  got  no  quarrel  more  with 
him.  He  met  me  up  over  the  very  day  afore  he  sailed 
away  from  England,  and  told  me  he  was  going,  and 
asked  my  pardon  for  all  the  past ;  and  I  gave  it  without 
a  thought  and  told  him  which  way  I'd  seen  his  uncle 
riding,  for  he  was  after  him  that  evening." 

"  Pity  he  didn't  find  the  man,"  mused  Mr.  Campion. 
''  Who  knows,  if  Timothy  had  been  led  to  the  poor  crea- 
ture, but  he  might  have  saved  his  life?" 

"  He  sought,  but  didn't  find,"  answered  Frederick 
Moyle.  "  He  wrote  to  Miss  Snow  the  same  night,  for 
she  told  me  so,  and  in  his  letter  he  said  that  he  had 
hunted  after  Mr.  Snow,  with  purpose  to  express  regret 
for  harsh  words  and  dangerous,  wicked  threats ;  but 
that  he  had  failed  to  see  anything  of  him." 

"  Well,  thankful  she'll  be  to  have  her  nephew  back, 
and  for  her  sake,  if  for  no  other,  I  hope  he'll  soon  be 
here,  for  she's  quite  shattered,"  said  the  master  of  "  The 
Coach  and  Horses." 

"  And  'twill  be  a  very  rare  sight  to  see  how  that  man  — 
with  all  his  high  opinions  and  scorn  of  cash  —  will  shape 
under  his  great  fortune,"  declared  Mr.  Campion. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

There  came  a  Sunday  in  late  September  when  Drusilla 
spoke  with  John  Redstone,  and  declared  her  intention 
of  leaving  Dury.  They  sat  together  by  the  river  in  the 
sunshine,  and  the  hour  was  noon. 

"  You  shall  drive  me  to  Ilsington  next  Wednesday," 
she  said,  "  and  I've  writ  to  Mr.  Blackaller  at  the  inn  to 
ask  his  married  sister  to  give  me  a  room  for  a  few  nights 
at  her  house,  as  she  did  when  my  aunt  died.  Then  I 
go  to  see  Sir  Percy  at  Yarner,  because  he's  very  mind- 
ful still  of  what  father  did  for  his  son,  and  I  make  no 
doubt  he'll  help  me  to  find  a  place.  And  —  O  John, 
how  shall  I  ever  be  able  to  thank  you  for  all  you've  done 
for  me?     'Tis  far  beyond  the  power  of  words." 

"  But  not  deeds,"  he  answered. 

The  man  had  waited  for  this  conversation,  and  knew 
by  her  increasing  restlessness  that  the  time  was  near. 
He  had  decided  with  himself  not  to  speak  until  she  put 
a  term  to  her  stay  at  Dury ;  and  now  she  was  going.  He 
felt  not  hopeful,  and  came  to  his  proposal  with  some 
dread;  but  accident  had  improved  the  outlook  in  his 
judgment,  and  he  explained  to  her  now  that  his  own 
future  depended  entirely  upon  hers. 

"  Not  deeds,  Drusilla.  All  the  same,  there's  no  call 
for  you  even  to  be  grateful.  All  the  owing  is  on  our 
side  —  every  bit  of  it.  You'll  never  know  what  you've 
been  to  grandfather  and  me,  or  how  cruel  we  shall  miss 
you.  *  I  can't  think  of  Dury  without  her  no  more,'  he 
said  to  me  when  you  was  gone  to  bed  last  night.  And 
I  said  —  I  said,  '  Dury  be  damned,'  I  said.  *  I  can't 
think  of  myself  without  her  no  more.'  And  that's  ter- 
rible true,  Drusilla.  Give  heed  to  me  —  there's  a  dear 
—  and  don't  interrupt  till  I've  said  what's  in  my  mind. 
Here  we  are  —  you  and  me  —  all  alone  in  the  world,  you 

234 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  235 

might  say  —  and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  why 
we  shouldn't  come  together.  You  don't  hate  me  —  you 
like  me  —  you  even  care  for  me,  because  you  told  grand- 
father so.  And  I  —  I  love  you  more  than  ever  I  loved 
you.  You've  come  to  be  to  me  just  everything  in  life, 
and  if  it  can't  be  —  if  there's  that  in  me  you  couldn't 
home  with  —  But  is  there  ?  You  vmderstand  me  so 
well,  and  you'd  never  have  took  the  trouble  to  do  that 
if  you  hadn't  felt  more  than  common  interest.  And  I 
understand  you  —  yes,  I  swear  I  do.  I  understand,  for 
instance,  why  'tis,  and  how  'tis,  you  feel  a  hankering 
after  Yarner  again,  despite  all  the  cruel  things  you've 
suffered  there.  I  know  how  'tis  and  why  'tis.  You're 
a  part  of  Yarner,  you  be  so  much  a  part  as  the  great 
fir,  that  grows  in  the  midst  ringed  round  with  birches, 
or  the  river  running  through,  or  the  creatures  born 
there.  You  was  born  there  —  'tis  your  natural  home 
and  food,  and  you're  being  starved  on  Dartmoor. 
D'you  think  I  don't  understand  all  that?  And  I  care  a 
lot  for  Yarner,  just  because  you  do;  and  I  want  for  to 
see  you  planted  back  there,  among  all  the  things  you 
know  and  that  know  you.  I'll  swear  they  miss  your 
coming  and  going.  And  look  here,  Drusilla  —  I've  very 
near  done  now  —  if  you'll  but  say  the  word,  and  let  me 
be  your  faithful  partner  and  lover  for  evermore,  we'll 
go  back  there  together.  And  then,  when  Amos  Kingdon 
drops  out,  as  he  will  on  a  pension  come  a  few  years, 
I'll  so  work  as  they'll  lift  me  to  be  head-keeper,  and 
us'll  have  Kingdon's  fine  house  —  and  there  you  are! 
Forget  a  thing  here  and  there,  Drusilla,  and  come  to 
me.  You  know  the  sort  I  am  —  not  so  bad  —  only 
short-tempered  and  too  fiery.  And —  But  I  can't  say 
no  more.  I've  bottled  it  up  till  now  for  fear  of  hurry- 
ing you  off;  but  now  you'm  fixed  to  go,  you  must  hear 
me.  'Tis  all  spoke  in  a  great  master  love  I've  got  for 
you,  and  my  love  have  sweetened  my  life,  even  though 
'twas  hopeless  till  now  —  but  now  —  now  —  don't  say 
*  no  '  again,  my  darling,  wonderful  girl !  Come  to  your 
Johnny,  and  trust  him  to  work  with  all  his  might  for 


236  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

you,  and  love  with  all  his  might  for  you  till  his  dying 
day." 

She  expected  this ;  but  she  came  to  the  proposal  still 
undecided.  His  petition  moved  her.  The  expression  of 
his  eyes  touched  her  a  little.  A  word  of  her  real  reason 
for  refusing  Timothy  Snow  would  have  settled  the  mat- 
ter instantly ;  but  she  could  not  speak  it,  though  she 
knew  that  it  must  be  now  or  never.  She  had  heard 
nothing  from  Timothy,  though  it  was  reported  that  Si- 
bella  Snow  had  heard  from  him.  He  had  gone  out  of 
her  life,  and  she  could  make  no  effort  to  bring  him  back 
again.  A  gulf  of  agony  separated  them,  and  distance 
had  not  made  her  heart  grow  fonder.  To  cross  that 
gulf  again  must  for  ever  be  impossible  now.  And  it 
seemed  that  he  no  more  desired  it  than  she  did.  Dru- 
silla  looked  at  Redstone,  and  answered  wearily.  She 
did  not  say  "  yes,"  but  implied  the  possibility  of  saying  it. 

"  There'll  be  many  ghosts  in  Yarner  now,  and  I  shall 
fear  them." 

"  Then  you'll  need  somebody  to  keep  'em  off." 

"  And  don't  you  fear  them,  John  ?  " 

"  I !  Not  L  I  fear  nothing  alive,  much  less  do  I 
dread  the  dead.  Ought  I  to?  It  ban't  in  me  to  do  it, 
Drusilla.  A  dead  man's  no  more  than  a  dead  tree.  And 
who  would  fear  that  ?  " 

She  thought  yet  again  upon  Timothy  Snow.  He  had 
faded  much  of  late,  and  seemed  shadowy  by  contrast 
with  the  man  in  the  flesh  by  her  side.  Now  Redstone 
spoke  of  the  other. 

"  Perhaps  this  ban't  a  very  clever  moment  to  mention 
the  man,  but  I've  a  feeling  you  mean  him  —  Timothy 
Snow.  He's  no  ghost.  He's  alive  —  gone  —  sent  going 
by  you.  Be  straight  now,  Drusilla.  'Tis  all  against  my 
own  interests  to  name  his  name  at  a  pinch  like  this, 
for  this  moment  be  full  of  my  future  —  my  life  hangs 
on  it,  you  may  say  —  hangs  on  you,  and  your  *  yes ' 
or  *  no.'  But  when  you  say  '  ghost,'  'tis  only  him  you 
can  have  —  where  ?  Where,  Drusilla  ?  In  your  mind, 
or  in  your  mind's  eve,  or  in  vour  heart?     Be  damned 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  237 

to  me  for  a  born  fool  to  drag  him  up !  I  wish  he  was 
a  ghost.  But  he  ban't.  He's  alive  and  kicking  —  kick- 
ing hard,  for  all  I  know,  because  you  —  What  am  I 
saying?  'Tisn't  decent  —  yet  you  understand.  I'm 
playing  with  my  chances  —  yet  you  understand.  Is  he 
hid  in  you  or  isn't  he,  Drusilla?  Was  it  true  you 
changed  your  mind  about  him?  Was  it  true  —  or  only 
a —  Fool,  fool,  fool  that  I  be  to  ask  such  ques- 
tions. .  ,  ." 

"  I  like  you  better  for  asking  them.  Maybe  it  shows 
you  love  me  more  than  I  thought  —  better  than  your- 
self, even." 

He  looked  at  her,  but  did  not  speak. 

"  You're  right  to  name  him  now,"  she  added.  "  You 
was  always  a  good  sportsman  and  hated  them  that  were 
not." 

She  felt  a  great  temptation  to  tell  him  why  she  had 
left  Timothy.  But  she  could  not,  for  she  had  deter- 
mined to  marry  him. 

"  You  loved  him,  I  know  that,"  said  the  man.  "  I 
don't  want  to  make  any  mistake.  I  don't  want  you  to 
come  to  me  for  some  fancied  obligation,  Drusilla. 
There's  none  —  none  in  the  world.  I'd  have  done  the 
like  for  any  woman  or  man  or  dog.  If  I  took  a  life, 
I  saved  a  life ;  and  your  beautiful  saved  life  can  be 
balanced  very  well  against  his  beastly  lost  one.  The 
world's  the  richer  both  ways.  But  there's  no  need  to  go 
over  that  no  more.  You  was  killing  yourself  for  some 
reason  —  slowly  killing  yourself.  I  don't  know  what 
'twas,  and  I  don't  want  to  know.  But  be  that  reason 
dead?  Can  you  swear  that  there's  no  thought  nor  grief 
great  enough  now  to  make  you  want  to  go  again?  If 
there  is,  can  I  come  betwixt  that  grief  and  you,  Drusilla  ? 
Don't  take  me  if  I  can't.  If  I  ban't  strong  enough  to 
take  sorrow  off  your  shoulders,  I'm  not  worthy  of  you. 
I  want  to  be  of  mighty  use  —  I  must  be  everything  or 
nothing.  I  can't  have  you,  and  be  no  more  to  you  than 
a  man  about  the  place.  I  must  be  nearer  than  anything 
—  nearer  than  Yarner,  nearer  than  your  own  soul.     I'm 


238  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

greedy  as  the  grave.  If  I've  got  to  go  without,  I'll  go 
without;  if  I'm  to  have  any,  I  must  have  all.  Not  a 
moderate  build  of  man  —  you  know  that.  God  forgive 
me  —  crying  stinking  fish  again,  and  running  myself 
down  when  I  ought  to  be  cracking  myself  up.  .  .  ." 

"  No  need  to  fear,"  she  said.  "  I  know  your  virtues, 
John.     You've  got  more  than  you'd  allow." 

"  You  can  think  that !  Thank  the  Lord,  then !  There's 
hope !  But  I'll  say  it  once  again,  though  it  dashes  all, 
and  douts  the  last  glimmer  of  light.  I'll  say  it  again, 
and  'tis  this :  I  don't  want  you  if  you  don't  want  me. 
I'd  find  out  if  you  came  to  me  for  gratitude,  and  not 
for  love,  and  then  there'd  be  a  mess  and  a  peck  of 
trouble  very  quick.  I  couldn't  suffer  that.  It  must  be 
the  real,  living,  red-hot  thing,  Drusilla,  for  nought  less 
will  satisfy  a  red-hot  man  like  me.  And  that's  all,  ex- 
cepting that  I  love  you  with  every  drop  of  blood  in  my 
veins,  and  I'd  fight  this  world  and  heaven  and  hell  for 
you,  and  do  deeds  above  all  that  was  ever  done  or 
heard  of  for  you.  Yes,  I  would,  Drusilla.  Loving  you 
have  made  a  finer  chap  of  me  —  a  far  finer  chap,  I  swear 
it  —  and  if  you  was  to  love  me  back,  I'd  rise  sky-high 
and  live  to  make  you  proud  of  me.  Who  could  do  less 
than  wonders,  if  they  was  wed  to  such  a  piece  as  you? 
O  God  —  I'd  credit  God  —  yes,  I'd  do  that  if  I  could 
win  you!  For  nought  less  than  a  fine  God  could  plan 
such  a  thing  as  you  for  a  man.  Come  to  me!  You 
believe  in  souls  and  all  that.  Then  take  my  soul  in 
exchange  for  your  body,  and  belike  you'll  larn  me  to 
believe  in  it  myself  afore  the  end.  Come  to  me,  and 
let  me  live  for  'e,  Dru,  darling ! " 

He  put  his  arms  round  her  neck,  and  dragged  her 
close  to  him.  She  did  not  stay  him,  but  looked  steadily, 
searchingly  into  his  face,  and  neither  spoke  nor  smiled. 
Something  in  the  man  now  prompted  him  to  touch  the 
darker  side  of  himself  again,  and  thrust  hideous  personal 
incidents  upon  his  love-making. 

"  I'm  not  a  murderer  —  so  far  as  I  can  see,"  he  said 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  239 

bluntly.  "  They've  never  found  him  —  and  maybe  never 
will.  You  know,  'twasn't  the  cold-blooded,  wakeful, 
watchful,  secret  thing  that  murder  is." 

He  stopped,  but  she  bade  him  speak  on.  Her  sense 
of  the  seemly  was  outraged. 

"  For  Mercy's  sake  don't  stop  there,"  she  said, 
"  Don't  leave  me  with  that  horror  in  my  ears  before  I 
speak  to  you !  "  / 

He  laughed  at  that. 

"  You  have  spoken,"  he  answered,  "  else  my  arms 
wouldn't  be  round  you  now,  and  suffered  to  stop  there. 
You  have  spoken.  You  love  me  —  I've  killed  a  bad  man 
in  a  rage,  and  yet  you  love  me  —  and  my  life's  afore  me 
to  do  mighty  things,  and  work  goodness,  and  find  high 
deeds  to  my  hand.  I'll  go  by  your  light,  Drusilla  —  'tis 
clearer  than  the  sun  for  me,  and  my  foot  won't  slip  no 
more,  and  I'll  be  patienter  and  gentler  and — " 

"  Great  promises !  "  she  said. 

"  Made  on  your  strength,  not  mine,"  he  answered. 

An  emotion  swept  her.  Her  heart  moved,  and  woke 
again  as  from  a  trance.  She  believed  that  circumstances 
had  opened  the  door  to  love  between  her  and  this  devout 
lover.  She  told  herself  that  life  had  been  powerless, 
until  the  recent  past,  to  wake  within  her  anything  but 
esteem  and  affection.  But  now  much  had  happened  to 
bring  them  together.  He  had  saved  her  life  —  was  not 
that  enough  ?  She  built  on  this.  She  felt  that  she  was 
in  the  way  to  love  him.  His  humility  pleaded  for  him. 
She  loved  the  humble.  Timothy  had  never  been  humble 
but  once  —  when  he  begged  her  to  reconsider  her  re- 
fusal. 

She  realised  that  the  man's  arms  were  still  round  her 
neck,  and  his  face  near  hers.  Then  she  focussed  her 
eyes  upon  him,  and  looked  into  their  russet  depths.  Her 
expression  apparently  banished  any  doubt  for  he  kissed 
her  passionately,  then  let  her  go  and  flung  himself  face 
downward  upon  the  sward  by  the  river,  where  hidden 
they  had  sat. 


240  TIJE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

]''or  a  long  time  he  was  silent,  with  his  countenance 
concealed ;  then  he  felt  her  hand  put  out  to  him. 

"  I'orgive  me,"  he  said,  "  but  my  brain  was  spinning. 
'Tis  almost  too  much  for  a  mortal  man.  I  was  drowning 
in  joy,  like  a  chap  might  drown  in  the  river.  I  was 
choked  with  it  —  could  hardly  breathe.  To  think  —  to 
think  —  and  every  bird  in  Yarner  would  be  whistling, 
and  every  tree  singing,  and  every  flower  budding,  if  they 
knowed  as  you  was  coming  back  so  soon !  Aye,  soon's 
the  word  —  soon  —  soon  soon,  Drusilla  !  " 

She  held  his  hand  while  he  spoke  again. 

"  And  say  'tis  for  love,  Drusilla  —  nought  else  — 
nought  else  —  not  pity  nor  gratitude  nor  any  other  stupid 
thing!" 

She  looked  at  his  great  square  hand,  and  noticed  how 
the  nails  were  bitten  down.     She  put  her  face  to  it. 

"  Would  I  have  took  you  foir  anything  less  than  love?  " 
she  asked.  "  How  can  T  help  loving  you  —  things  being 
with  vis  as  they  are?" 

There  was  a  note  almost  querimonious  in  the  question ; 
but  he  did  not  notice  that,  and  cried  aloud  his  joy. 


CHAPTER  XV 

SiBELLA  Snow  had  been  thrown  into  very  dire  con- 
fusion at  her  brother's  disappearance,  and  the  strain  and 
stress,  acting  upon  a  mind  enfeebled  by  age,  upset  her. 
Mentally  and  physically  she  suffered,  and  it  was  not  until 
several  weeks  had  passed  that  her  health  mended,  and 
the  doctor  ceased  to  visit  her.  During  that  period  Si- 
bella's  clouded  intelligence  betrayed  her.  Her  memory 
failed;  certain  actions  very  vital  to  another  were  not 
performed ;  certain  promises  were  not  kept. 

Blame  attached  to  none ;  only  the  falling  out  of  things 
upset  her  balance,  and  by  the  time  it  was  restored  and 
she  regained  strength  and  composure  to  proceed  with  a 
life  radically  changed  in  its  great  particulars,  time  had 
sped  with  those  involved,  and  it  appeared  no  longer 
possible  to  fulfil  former  undertakings. 

Not  for  some  time,  however,  did  the  old  woman  per- 
ceive all  that  had  happened  since  the  vanishing  of  Lot 
Snow  and  her  subsequent  collapse.  When  partially  re- 
stored to  health  her  mind  turned  first  to  Timothy,  and 
her  desire  was  towards  him.  None  else  but  the  lawyers 
could  assist  her,  and  since  the  general  conviction  ap- 
peared to  be  that  her  brother  was  dead,  she  felt  impera- 
tive need  of  her  nephew's  return.  Possessions  were 
nothing  to  her,  ^nd  she  purposed  to  make  all  over  to 
Timothy  at  the  earliest  possible  moment.  Impatiently 
she  had  awaited  news  of  him  and  his  direction,  but, 
when  the  man's  first  letter  arrived,  she  was  too  ill  to 
read  it.  The  lawyers,  however,  did  so,  and  communi- 
cated to  him  as  swiftly  as  possible  the  disaster  that  had 
overtaken  his  family.  His  answer  was  delayed,  and 
when  it  came,  he  expressed  deep  concern  for  Miss  Snow, 
and  declared  that  he  would  return  to  support  her  if  she 
desired  it.  In  a  private  letter  to  his  aunt  he  asked  for 
i6  241 


242  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

information  respecting  Drusilla,  and  it  was  not  until 
some  weeks  later,  when  well  enough  to  take  up  the 
threads  of  her  life,  that  the  old  woman  read  this  letter 
and  busied  herself  with  Timothy's  affairs.  She  did  not 
realise  at  that  time  the  significance  of  the  delay,  but  it 
was  soon  forced  upon  her.  She  replied  to  her  nephew 
with  an  entreaty  that  he  would  return  to  her  at  the 
earliest  possible  moment,  and  an  assurance  that  Dru- 
silla was  safe.  She  knew  what  Ilsington  knew,  but 
no  more,  and  informed  Timothy  that  the  girl  had  been 
very  ill,  had  gone  to  friends  at  Dury  Farm  on  Dart- 
moor, and  had  there  been  nursed  back  to  health.  Miss 
Snow  promised  to  see  her  as  soon  as  she  conveniently 
could  do  so,  and  then  undertook  to  write  again. 

Youth,  with  all  its  time  before  it,  is  ever  in  a  hurry ; 
while  the  old,  though  their  tether's  end  may  lie  in  sight, 
preserve  a  deliberation  that  makes  the  younger  genera- 
tion frantic.  Sibella  took  her  time,  unaware  of  any  neces- 
sity for  haste.  She  learned  that  Drusilla  was  well  again, 
and  that  her  future  plans  continued  uncertain. 

At  length  an  opportunity  occurred  for  seeing  the  girl. 
The  carrier  travelled  from  Ilsington  to  Widecombe  and 
Postbridge ;  and  Miss  Snow,  now  restored  to  health,  and 
accustomed  to  the  disaster  of  her  brother's  obliteration, 
determined  to  devote  a  day  to  Drusilla.  She  went  to 
sound  her  as  to  her  purposes,  and  learn,  if  possible,  her 
attitude  toward  Timothy.  Miss  Snow  was  prepared  to 
tell  Drusilla  that  Lot  had  revealed  her  secret,  and  ex- 
plained to  Timothy,  almost  in  the  moment  before 
his  disappearance,  why  the  keeper's  sweetheart  had  re- 
fused him.  Under  the  altered  circumstances,  further 
need  for  this  great  sacrifice  did  not  exist,  and  Sibella 
rejoiced  to  think  how  she  would  be  able  to  tell  the 
heroine  of  the  story  that  Timothy  loved  her  more  than 
ever,  and  would  swiftly  return  home  to  claim  her  again. 

She  built  up  a  pleasant  picture  of  the  girl's  emotion 
on  hearing  the  great  news,  and  brooded  peacefully  while 
the  cart  of  Thomas  Turtle,  the  carrier,  conveyed  her  to 
the  Moor. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  243 

Her  journey  was  undertaken  on  the  day  after  John 
Redstone's  triumphant  wooing,  and  the  man  himself 
met  her  before  she  reached  the  road  to  Dury.  He  was 
on  horseback,  and  stopped  the  public  vehicle  before  he 
recognised  Miss  Snow. 

"  Hold  on,  Tom  Turtle !  I've  got  a  bit  of  news,  and 
nought  to  carry  it  like  a  carrier ! " 

Mr.  Turtle  drew  up,  and  lit  his  pipe.  Then  John 
noted  the  passenger. 

"  Of  all  people !  Miss  Snow  I  see.  I  hope  you  be 
growed  stronger,  Miss?  My  folk  was  a  good  bit  trou- 
bled to  hear  of  all  your  worries." 

Frankness  personified  sat  on  the  man's  red  and  happy 
face.  It  is  a  fact  that  at  the  moment  he  utterly  forgot 
his  own  hand  in  Miss  Snow's  tribulation. 

"  I'm  stronger,  thank  you,  and  very  hopeful  that  my 
nephew,  Timothy,  will  soon  be  back  to  look  after  things. 
'Twas  a  terrible  come-along-of-it,  and  threw  me  off  my 
balance,  and  took  ten  years  ofif  my  life,  I'm  sure.  But 
I'm  able  to  face  it  all  now,  and  trust  to  Higher  Hands 
to  right  the  wrong.  And,  by  the  same  token,  how's 
Drusilla  ?     I'm  here  to  see  her." 

"  And  wish  her  joy,  I  hope.  'Twas  about  her  I 
stopped  Turtle's  coach.  Us  be  going  to  wed  —  truly  and 
faithfully !  I  can't  believe  it  yet  —  'tis  one  of  they  sud- 
den, far-reaching  things  that  leave  a  man  full  of  joy,  and 
he  dreads  shutting  his  eyes  and  falling  asleep  for  fear 
of  losing  a  single  moment.  But  there  'tis :  she've  took 
me,  because  I  had  the  blessed  luck  to  save  her  life.  And 
such  love  as  her's  never  was  afore,  I'll  swear,  'Tis  to 
be  this  instant  moment,  you  might  say,  and  I'm  now  on 
my  way  to  Widecombe  to  have  the  banns  axed  out  next 
Sunday.  And  she's  hungering  after  Yarner,  where  she 
was  born  and  bred ;  and  to  Yarner  I  shall  take  her, 
because  I  go  back  myself  now  she's  decided.  Give  me 
joy  —  both  of  you.  And  I  shall  be  back  afore  you  go, 
Miss,  I  hope." 

Sibella  could  not  conceal  all  that  she  felt  at  this  sudden 
news,  but  she  murmured  some  expression  of  pleasure. 


244  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Her  own  course  now  looked  difficult  indeed.  Her  be- 
wilderment increased,  and  her  mind  began  to  wander. 
Unconsciously  Redstone  solved  the  difficulty. 

"  And  now  you're  my  landlord,  Miss ;  and  I  hope  to 
God  you'll  find  yourself  able  to  meet  me.  Mr.  Lot 
couldn't  see  with  my  eyes.  He  never  forgave  my  father 
for  doing  him  a  wrong.  But  —  you  —  you  —  you  don't 
harbour  no  revenges  against  the  dead?  You  won't  take 
Dury  away?  You'll  let  us  bide  our  time,  and  make  all 
good  slowly?  'Tis  more  than  ever  to  me  now,  because 
I  may  have  raised  up  a  son  this  time  next  year.  Just 
think  of  that  great  thought!  And  'twill  be  a  terrible 
cruel  thing  if  Dury  is  to  slip  away  from  my  boy.  Re- 
member I  sold  all  my  sheep  to  save  it." 

She  came  to  herself  at  this,  and  saw  here  an  easy  ex- 
cuse for  her  visit. 

"  I'm  not  likely  to  be  hard,  nor  my  nephew  neither. 
I  pray  he'll  be  home  in  a  month  or  two,  and  I'll  promise 
for  him  that  he'll  listen  to  reason,  Mr.  Redstone.  I  was 
just  over  to  say  that  and  a  few  other  things  —  and  to 
tell  Drusilla  I  was  glad  she'd  grown  strong  again.  You 
can  trust  Timothy  to  do  right  by  the  farm." 

"  Well  I  know  it  —  even  as  the  case  stands.  He's 
above  revenges  and  beastly  things  like  that.  And  you 
might  tell  him  when  you  write  how  it  is  between  Drusilla 
Whyddon  and  me.  'Tis  a  very  tender  subject  for  the 
winner  to  touch,  and  I  don't  know  even  now,  and  I 
shall  never  ask  to  know,  why  for  she  changed  her  mind 
about  him,  for  he  was  a  much  finer  and  cleverer  sort 
of  man  than  me ;  but  after  saying  '  no  '  to  me  and  '  yes  ' 
to  your  nephew,  I  suppose  it  came  up  in  her  wonderful 
mind  that  something  was  wrong,  and  she  very  near  died 
of  it,  without  a  doubt ;  for  she's  a  tender  creature  —  all 
nerves  and  feelers  where  her  duty's  concerned.  Any- 
way, love  and  conscience  and  all  the  rest  of  it  told  her 
she  had  made  a  mistake  —  that's  clear.  And  she  had 
pluck  enough,  at  cost  of  bitter  pain  to  herself  and  him, 
to  chuck  him  and  stand  his  hard  words  afterwards. 
Then,  somehow,  she  drifted  back  into  my  keeping,  and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  245 

at  last,  after  she'd  been  at  death's  door,  she  saw  how 
life  went,  and  that  I  was  the  man.  And  but  yesterday 
—  but  yesterday  it  was  —  she  took  me.  And  I'll  thank 
you  to  let  your  nephew  know  very  clear  how  it  all  stands ; 
because  I'd  hate  for  any  darkness  and  difficulty  between 
him  and  me  when  he  comes  back.  There's  Dury  first, 
but  that's  nothing.  There's  my  wife,  as  she  will  be  by 
then,  and  I'd  like  for  him  to  understand  how  it  fell  out  — 
all  fair  and  above  board.  I  want  him  to  know  before 
everything  that  I  didn't  tempt  her  away  from  him,  or 
anything  like  that.  But  she  decided  about  him  once  for 
all  before  I  came  back  into  her  life  and  won  her.  'Tis 
only  fair  to  her  and  Timothy  to  make  that  clear.  She 
was  contrite  enough  about  changing  her  mind.  But  such 
things  will  happen,  and  men  and  women  ban't  strong 
enough  to  know  their  own  minds  for  certain  at  all 
times.'' 

"  I  can't  stop  listening  to  your  chatter  no  more, 
Johnny,"  said  Mr.  Turtle.  "  I  must  get  on,  or  all  Post- 
bridge  will  wonder  where  I  be  stuck  to." 

He  proceeded,  and  presently  Miss  Snow  talked  with 
Drusilla,  perceived  that  she  was  content  and  listened  to 
her  plans. 

"  John  wants  to  be  married  in  a  month,  and  get  back 
to  Yarner  and  take  up  his  old  work.  They  wish  him 
to  do  it.  And  I'll  be  very  glad  to  go  back  there,  though 
I've  suffered  a  great  deal  there  —  partly  my  own  fault 
and  partly  another's.  But  it's  over.  Miss  Snow%  and  I'm 
thankful  enough  to  be  alive.  I  did  very  wrong  to  try 
and  get  out  of  it.  I  can  look  back  and  see  that.  I've 
got  a  good  man  to  love  me,  and  I'll  try  and  make  him 
happy." 

She  spoke  without  enthusiasm,  and  still  showed  traces 
of  her  illness  and  privations.  She  neither  mentioned 
Timothy  Snow  nor  alluded  to  the  disappearance  of  Lot. 
And  Sibella  followed  her  example.  She  felt  now  that 
time  must  pass  and  deep  deliberations  ensue  before  she 
dared  mention  Timothy.  She  spoke  of  Dury,  promised 
that  Redstone's  anxieties  on  that  score  might  be  allayed, 


246  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  was  glad  when  the  time  came  for  her  to  depart  and 
rejoin  Mr.  Turtle  on  his  homeward  way. 

Old  Jacob  walked  to  the  high-road  with  her,  and  ex- 
hibited a  very  active  joy  at  the  trend  of  affairs. 

"  God's  turned  His  Eye  upon  us,  without  a  doubt," 
he  said.  "  For  here's  Johnny  lifted  up  unto  heaven  on 
earth,  along  of  that  dear  creature  loving  him  and  ready 
to  take  him ;  and  as  if  that  wasn't  enough,  you  come 
along,  with  this  brave  news  that  he's  to  be  allowed  to 
win  back  Dury.  A  very  honourable  man,  mind  you. 
You'll  lose  nought  by  him  if  you  have  to  live  a  hundred 
years.  We'm  both  like  that.  'Tis  all  figured  out  to  a 
sixpence,  and  the  time  and  everything." 

"  My  nephew  will  see  to  it.  But  he's  a  just  man,  too. 
And  he'll  be  very  well  pleased  to  mix  a  pinch  of  charity 
with  his  justice  if  I  want  it  so." 

"  No  doubt,  no  doubt.  Lucky  be  they  as  have  the 
chance  to  practise  charity  upon  their  fellows.  'Tis  one 
of  the  great  blessings  of  the  rich,  I'm  sure,  that  'tis  in 
their  reach  every  hour  of  the  day.  But  there's  a  good 
few  don't  value  it,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  I'm  sorry  for 
the  greedy  rich,  and  sorry  for  the  generous  poor,  too, 
because  they  be  often  very  alive  to  the  beauty  of  charity, 
and  don't  get  the  smallest  chance  to  use  it.  'Tis  not  to 
blame  the  greedy  rich  I  speak,  however.  They'm  born 
rich,  and  bred  selfish,  through  no  fault  of  their  own. 
I  think  a  lot  upon  these  questions,  for  I've  marked  great 
changes,  and  I've  laughed  at  'em  all.  They'm  so  blind, 
these  here  rich  folk ;  they  can  count  up  the  figures  in  their 
money  books,  but  can't  count  up  the  number  of  the  poor 
and  set  'em  against  the  number  of  the  rich,  and  subtract 
one  from  t'other.  'Tis  a  sum  that  the  poor  are  doing 
cleverer  every  day,  however;  and  they'll  come  to  money 
sums  and  land  sums  next ;  and  there'll  be  a  very  sharp 
question  put  against  the  arithmetic  of  the  rich.  They'll 
get  terrible  hot  about  it  in  the  next  generation,  and  there'll 
be  a  long  rest  for  charity.  Everybody  will  scorn  the 
word.     The  meek  be  going  to  inherit  the  earth  —  and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  247 

then  they  won't  be  meek  no  more.  Not  that  you  and 
me  will  live  to  see  it,  my  old  dear." 

"  Nothing  hides  the  truth  of  life  from  people  like 
money,"  said  Miss  Snow.  "  I  don't  like  rich  folk. 
They  only  try  to  please  one  another.  'Tis  natural,  no 
doubt.  There's  a  gulf  fixed  between  poor  and  rich, 
and,  so  long  as  there  be  poor  and  rich,  'twill  never  be 
crossed.  The  rich  don't  know  they're  born ;  but  that's 
the  first  thing  the  poor  find  out." 

"  Doan't  be  too  hard  on  the  rich,"  said  Jacob.  "  'Tis 
only  one  in  a  hundred  of  'em  properly  enjoys  his  money. 
They  suffer  from  all  sort  of  complaints  we  can  laugh  at 
—  complaints  of  mind,  I  mean.  I've  seed  a  rich  man 
just  dance  with  passion  and  thwarted  temper  to  know  he 
was  being  scored  off  and  done  all  round  —  and  nobody 
to  hit  back.  'Twas  his  wife  and  children,  and  the  shop- 
keepers, and  the  labourers  and  servants,  and  the  Radical 
Government  with  their  taxes,  and  in  fact  everybody 
on  earth  —  all  had  their  claws  into  his  deep  purse.  Life 
was  a  bed  of  thorns  for  him,  and  he  smelt  thief  day  and 
night.  A  silly  man,  too  —  hadn't  earned  his  riches,  but 
hated  to  think  anybody  else  should  have  a  penny  without 
earning  it.  Went  through  life  properly  groaning  under 
his  weight  of  cash,  and  died  of  a  cancer ;  and  even 
shortened  his  days  at  that,  'twas  said,  by  fretting  his 
gizzard  green  about  how  to  dodge  the  Death  Duties." 

That  night  Sibella,  from  her  chicket  window  above  the 
churchyard,  gazed  upon  the  tombs,  and  sought  from 
their  silence  to  learn  what  she  should  do.  She  puzzled 
long,  fell  asleep  there,  and  woke  to  find  the  moon  had 
risen  and  run  a  silver  band  round  many  a  slate  and 
stone.  An  owl  hooted  from  a  cypress,  then  it  flashed 
down,  swept  over  the  mounds,  and  caught  a  mouse  on 
the  grave  of  a  young  farmer's  wife.  She  had  been 
buried  a  year,  and  a  white  cross  was  just  lifted  to  her. 
There  ran  a  legend  upon  the  plinth  extolling  the  Chris- 
tian virtues  of  the  dead ;  yet  all   in   Ilsington,  save  a 


248  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

stricken  widower,  knew  that  her  virtues  were  not  those 
precious  to  a  Christian  or  a  husband. 

"  Silence  —  silence,"  thought  Sibella  — "  'tis  the  only 
safe  road  to  pick  nowadays,  for  the  world's  got  so  noisy 
that  silence  is  forgot  and  goes  unmarked.  I've  prac- 
tised it  most  all  my  life,  and  now  —  even  if  I  would  be 
talking  —  what  should  I  say  ?  'Tis  clear  we  was  mis- 
took about  Drusilla  refusing  Timothy,  and  for  my 
brother's  memory  I'm  glad  to  think  so.  Surely  he  never 
choked  the  girl  off  Timothy  after  all,  though  he  said  as 
he  did,  because  if  it  had  been  his  work,  she  would  not 
have  denied  her  lover  any  more,  now  that  Lot's  arm 
don't  block  the  way.  Surely  the  first  thing  she'd  have 
done,  when  she  got  strong  again,  must  have  been  to  seek 
out  Timothy,  and  tell  him  all  about  why  for  she  had 
thrown  him  over.  But  she's  took  Johnny  Redstone. 
Knowing  that  the  case  is  altered,  she's  nevertheless  took 
him,  and  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said." 

She  convinced  herself  that  in  no  case  had  any  loop- 
hole of  hope  been  left  for  her  nephew  with  Drusilla, 
and  resolved  to  write  accordingly.  She  mourned  for 
Timothy,  but  was  thankful  for  herself  that  she  could  not 
blame  her  own  delay  as  the  cause  of  this  crushing  news. 
She  resolved  to  acquaint  her  nephew  with  the  facts  as 
she  understood  them ;  explain  that  the  reason  of  Dru- 
silla's  rejection  was  clearly  not  inspired  by  Lot  Snow, 
and  still  remained  secret ;  break  to  him  that  Drusilla  had 
joined  Redstone,  and  intended  immediately  to  wed  and 
go  back  to  Yarner.  Only  when  she  thought  upon  this 
item  of  news  did  Sibella  flash  into  some  indignation. 
She  resented  the  girl's  return  to  her  old  home,  and  mar- 
velled at  the  hardness  of  a  heart  that  could  live  in  that 
theatre  sacred  to  another  man,  whom  she  had  loved  and 
lifted  up,  only  to  cast  down  again  at  some  secret  whim, 
apparently  too  ugly  to  be  revealed.  She  sighed  in  sym- 
pathy with  Timothy,  then  considered  whether  her  anger 
might  be  justified.  Did  she  know  enough  to  be  angry? 
The  mousing  owl  cried  out  again,  and  the  graves  glim- 
mered.    The  moon  was  got  west  of  south,  and  Sibella's 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  249 

home  threw  a  black  shadow  into  the  churchyard  and 
obscured  the  resting-places  of  the  Snows.  She  looked 
at  the  place  that  Lot  had  long  ago  chosen  for  himself, 
and  she  hoped  that  she  might  yet  live  to  see  him  peace- 
fully laid  there.  The  thought  that  she  was  rich  and 
powerful  returned  to  her.  She  had  feared  and  fled  from 
that  idea,  but  it  became  more  endurable  now.  She  de- 
signed all  for  Timothy,  but  knew  that  houses  and  lands 
would  not  lessen  his  tribulation  when  her  news  should 
fall  upon  him. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Drusilla  moved  in  a  strange  and  unreal  atmosphere  of 
ideas  during  the  brief  weeks  that  separated  her  from 
marriage.  She  could  not  estimate  her  own  feelings,  and 
gave  up  trying  to  do  so,  but  the  underlying  emotion  was 
one  of  suspense.  She  felt  not  unhappy.  She  was  alive 
to  the  worth  of  Redstone,  and  much  in  him  chimed  wnth 
herself.  The  lurid  cloud  that  hung  over  him  did  not 
frighten  her,  since  he  appeared  so  profoundly  indifferent 
to  it.  He  could  not  be  called  callous  or  cynical.  His 
attitude  was  genuine,  and  she  shared  it,  so  that  now  she 
felt  no  more  discomfort  before  the  incident  of  the  past 
than  a  butcher's  wife  might  feel  when  her  husband  comes 
red-handed  home  to  breakfast.  She  thought,  indeed, 
upon  a  possible  sequel,  but  he  never  did.  And  then  she 
found  that  in  all  honesty,  without  any  deception  thrown 
by  gratitude  or  sentiment,  she  began  to  love  the  man.  It 
was  an  emotion  still  differing  from  her  worship  of  Tim- 
othy, as  dawn  differs  from  the  light  of  the  noonday  sun ; 
but  it  was  a  true  dawn ;  the  light  shone  clear  and  irradi- 
ated her  spirit.  Since  she  had  to  live,  her  instinct  to 
minister  to  somebody  or  something  would  be  gratified  in 
the  home  of  Redstone,  and  she  felt  eager  to  begin  the  new 
life,  so  that  she  might  think  more  of  others  and  less  of 
herself. 

There  is  a  sort  of  strength  exhibited  by  women  that 
amazes  men,  and  even  Redstone,  a  stranger  to  sentiment, 
felt  wonder  to  see  the  attitude  of  Drusilla  when  she  stood 
in  the  thatched  house  at  Yarner's  eastern  gate  —  the  cot- 
tage amid  the  green  laurels  beside  the  stew-pond,  where 
Timothy  and  his  mother  had  dwelt. 

His  instincts  declared  that  he  could  not  ask  Drusilla  to 
live  there.  He  had  merely  mentioned  the  proposed  plan 
and  left  her  to  negative  it.     But  she  did  not.     A  week 

250 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  251 

before  they  were  married  she  went  with  him  to  their 
future  home,  and  planned  it,  and  walked  through  the 
chambers  without  any  outward  sign  of  distress.  He  told 
himself  that  if  he  had  been  a  woman,  he  could  not  have 
done  this ;  but  perhaps  only  a  woman  could.  Redstone 
was  none  the  less  exceedingly  glad,  for  Drusilla's  self- 
control  made  the  future  simple  and  straightforward. 
He  kept  from  all  sentimental  comment  carefully,  and 
fell  in  with  every  suggestion  that  she  was  pleased  to  make. 

The  trap  that  had  brought  them  waited  at  the  higher 
lodge,  the  girl's  old  home,  and  on  the  way  thither,  back 
through  the  woods,  a  storm  broke  upon  them  and  they 
sought  shelter  beneath  a  giant  spruce  —  the  king  of  the 
forest,  as  Drusilla  had  always  called  it.  Both  had  viewed 
the  gaunt  chimney  of  the  mine  on  the  hither  hillside, 
but  neither  had  spoken  of  it.  The  man,  however,  was 
quick  to  know  her  thought,  and  answered  her  unuttered 
words. 

"  We  can't  see  the  thing  from  our  home,"  he  said. 
"  'Tis  well  out  of  sight  round  the  shoulder  of  the  fir 
wood." 

She  nodded,  but  did  not  answer. 

The  storm  beat  fiercely  overhead.  The  rain  ran  down 
the  beech  trunks  in  little  cataracts  gathered  from  the  ex- 
panse of  the  foliage.  Like  cups,  every  leaf  of  a  myriad 
leaves  gleaned  its  share,  and  added  a  few  drops  to  the 
volume  contributed  by  the  branch.  These  tributaries  met 
at  the  main  stem,  and  carried  each  tree's  proper  tribute  to 
the  roots.  Overhead  the  roar  of  the  water  falling  on  the 
forest  was  like  thunder, 

A  man  came  running  for  shelter  to  the  great  spruce. 

"  'Tis  Saul  Butt,"  said  Redstone.  "  Ah,  Saul,  well 
met!  I  was  wishful  to  ax  you  to  my  wedding  feast  at 
Dury  o'  Monday  week.  A  good  few  neighbours  be  com- 
ing, Mr.  Kingdon  and  his  wife  among  the  rest." 

"  I'll  be  there  and  welcome,  and  thank  you  very  much, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Saul.  "  Campion  told  me  a  bit  ago  that 
his  friend,  your  old  grandfather,  had  axed  him.  And  we 
all  be  very  glad  that  you  come  back ;  and  I  hope  that 


252  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

your  young  woman  have  forgiven  me  for  taking  her  old 
house.  I  heard  she'd  have  liked  to  go  back  there  after 
she's  married." 

"  Not  at  all,"  declared  John.  "  She's  very  pleased 
with  the  east  lodge,  han't  you,  Drusilla  ?  " 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  Butt.  "  You  may  have  heard, 
the  chap  as  dwelt  there  be  coming  home  along.  And  he'll 
bide  home  altogether,  'tis  thought,  for,  of  course,  there's 
a  lot  of  man's  work  to  be  done  for  Miss  Snow,  now  her 
brother  be  snatched  away  in  this  queer  fashion ;  and  as 
all  the  riches  will  belong  to  Timothy  when  she  drops,  if 
not  sooner,  he's  coming  back  to  look  round  for  her,  and 
clear  everything  up  so  far  as  the  law  allows.  And  the 
chances  look  as  if  he'd  stop,  at  least  so  long  as  his  old 
aunt  lives." 

"  He  will  for  sure,"  declared  John ;  "  she'll  look  to  him 
to  do  so.  There'll  be  a  pack  of  business,  and  'twill  doubt- 
less pay  him  again  and  again  to  stop." 

The  storm  swept  forward ;  the  sky  cleared,  and  Dru- 
silla, with  Redstone,  went  her  way  through  the  waning 
drip. 

"  How  my  stupid  heart  changes ! "  she  said  presently. 
"  Now  that  you're  coming  back  here,  and  leaving  Dury 
just  for  me,  and  only  for  me,  I  begin  to  wonder  if  I 
shouldn't  be  happier  after  all  in  your  farm.  'Twas  a 
great  sorrow  to  your  grandfather,  I  believe,  when  you 
decided  for  Yarner.  I'm  such  a  selfish  creature  since  I 
was  ill." 

"  Don't  you  say  that,  and  don't  you  fret  for  gaffer. 
He's  all  right.  Never  a  week  will  pass  but  you  or  me  will 
get  a  sight  of  him.  We  shall  see  what  happens  to  Dury 
when  Timothy  Snow  comes  to  tackle  it.  He's  an  up- 
right and  honourable  creature,  and  I  ban't  feared  that 
he'll  do  as  his  uncle  did.  Timothy  keeps  faith  with  his 
fellow-men,  and  I'm  very  willing  and  wishful  to  trust 
him,  and  be  his  friend  —  if  he'll  suffer  it." 


BOOK  III 
CHAPTER  I 

Now  the  hem  of  Demeter's  garment  was  threadbare  and 
its  rags  and  tatters  of  glory  marked  her  passing;  while 
behind  the  gold,  her  heaven-blue  veil  fluttered  in  every 
thicket  and  tangled  in  every  glen.  The  heaths  and  hang- 
ing woods,  the  glades  and  secret  places  by  streamside  had 
indued  themselves  with  the  tinctures  of  the  hour.  They 
pulsed  in  light  of  dawn  and  sunset,  and  each  day  height- 
ened the  splendour  since  the  thinning  forest  atoned  for 
their  lost  legions  by  the  increasing  brilliance  of  the  leaves 
that  still  held  the  bough. 

As  in  burgeoning  and  accession,  so  at  this  season  of 
surrender,  each  tree  of  all  the  myriad  trees  revealed  a 
proper  personality,  and,  while  yielding  to  the  sere  and 
keeping  punctual  count  of  autumn's  toll,  yet  obeyed  its 
individual  nature  and  displayed  its  idiosyncrasy.  The 
oaks  conformed  to  rule  each  in  her  own  way ;  the  beeches 
passed  at  separate  hours  and  with  different  manifesta- 
tions ;  the  birches  likewise  declared  themselves ;  and  as 
the  shepherd  separates  his  sheep,  that  to  the  unseeing  eye 
are  moulded  on  one  pattern,  or  the  huntsman  segregates 
the  nature  of  each  hound,  so  a  woodman  perceives  how 
widely  unlike  may  be  the  kindred  trees. 

Now  all  were  shedding  their  leaves  and  entering  upon 
sleep,  but  the  manner  of  yielding  was  diverse,  for  here 
the  prodigal  stood  already  stripped  of  gold  ;  here  her  more 
chary  sister  gave  sparingly  at  tlie  demand  of  the  wind  ; 
and  here  rose  another,  who  had  broken  later  into  life  at 
spring-time  and  still  persisted,  a  tower  of  steadfast  green, 
against  the  gaudy  wood.  Their  doffing  of  raiment  was 
like  a  city,  that  sinks  upon  repose  to  wake  and  rise 
again ;  for  the  forest  fitfully  cast  aside  its  robes,  grown 

253 


254  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

worn  and  mellow  through  the  storm  and  fret  of  the  year. 
Slowly  here,  swiftly  there,  in  shreds  and  patches,  it  un- 
rayed  and  entered  upon  the  time  of  rest. 

The  slopes  of  Yarner  were  hung  as  for  a  pageant,  and 
the  personal  fashion  and  custom  of  manifold  trees  lent  a 
pomp  and  diversity  to  the  spectacle  that  a  wood  of  one 
sole  timber  cannot  know.  Here  larches  were  aflame,  and 
their  pavilions  of  lemon  light  gleamed  against  the  russet 
and  tawny  of  the  woods ;  here  the  birches  already  tow- 
ered silvery  through  the  thinning  flutter  of  their  leaves ; 
here,  an  oak  was  green,  while  his  neighbour  ash  showed 
dreary  grey  creeping  to  blackness  through  her  verdure. 
Fairest  of  all  the  stately  things  that  ascended  above  the 
prevalent  radiance  now  kindling  over  Yarner,  did  the 
beeches  rise ;  for  upon  them  autumn  stole  with  delicious 
touch  to  trace  the  anatomy  of  drooping  boughs  in  flicker 
of  flame;  to  light  the  shoulders  of  each  gracious  tree 
with  gold  and  feather  their  finials  with  red  gold. 

The  hills  spread  melting  and  of  a  liquid  lustre  where 
ran  together  all  tones  of  honey  and  amber ;  in  sunshine 
they  warmed  to  rose  and  orange ;  in  shadow  they  dimmed 
and  cooled  to  delicate,  chill  fawn,  or  a  brown  and  sepia ; 
but  ever  across  the  darkest  passages  were  flecked  and 
spattered  spots  and  little  leafy  galaxies  of  light  upon 
the  bough ;  while  against  even  the  shining  places  of  far- 
flung  fern  or  massy  boughs  aflame,  there  persisted  the 
greater  glitter  of  single,  ineffable  light  points,  flashing 
sun-bright  upon  the  earth-bright  heath  or  spinny  edge. 
And  though  sad-coloured  passages  opened  in  the  midst 
of  these  riotous  splendours,  where  the  rowan  faded  a 
misty  grey :  where  the  leaf  of  the  lichen-clad  thorns  was 
sped,  and  the  dogwood  had  sunk  into  a  sulky  purple ;  yet 
such  sober  things  served  but  to  heighten  the  general  con- 
flagration. At  high  noon,  or  in  the  blaze  of  great  sun- 
sets, a  seeing  eye  ached  before  this  bravery  and  sought 
the  dim  dingle,  the  shadow-haunted  goyle,  or  the  com- 
pany of  certain  pines,  that  now  shone  out  with  blue  of 
azure  set  in  the  fiery  garniture  of  the  fall. 

Upon  the  open  spaces  dead  heath  and  bracken  spread 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 


-d:-» 


a  thick,  warm  pelt  upon  the  glades,  like  to  the  genial 
colour  of  a  brown  bear ;  but  whereas  the  heather  had  uni- 
versally perished,  save  for  a  splash  or  twinkle  of  purple, 
the  eagle  fern  was  not  all  down,  and,  after  the  fashion  of 
greater  things,  declared  the  purpose  and  peculiarity  of 
each  frond.     By  the  fallen  stem  towered  one  still  green 
and   erect;   intermediate   reaches   struggled  upright   still 
amid  the  prostrate  legions,  and  showed  no  more  than  a 
powder   of   yellow   upon   their   verdure.     Thus   even   to 
the  fern  this  multifarious  personality  persisted,  with  dif- 
ference of  uncurling  in  time  and  colour,  peculiarity  of 
passing,  subtle  divergence  in  texture  and  quality  and  vir- 
tue of  the  plasm  —  secrets  all  to  be  guessed  at  to-day  and 
solved  to-morrow.     For  since  we  perceive  that  some  rise 
out  from  the  herd,  even  as  man  and  beasts  ascend  above 
kind  and  kinship;  search  may  anon  probe  deeper,  dis- 
cover the  significance  of  such   distinctions,  and  so  tri- 
umphantly come  at  the  real  good  and  evil  of  the  silva  — 
supposing  that  it  hides  in  these  physical  qualities.     And 
as  the  tree  expresses  its  own  nature  and  distinction  amid 
the  forest  of  trees,  so  of  the  myriad  leaves  that  deck 
these  million  boughs,  each  is  its  very  self  and  a  thing 
unique.     This  one  turns  ash-coloured ;  it  wrinkles  and 
shrivels  and  falls  untimely  at  the  first  breath  of  change ; 
its  twin  holds  stoutly  on,  grows  red  and  gold  to  the  bite 
of  the  frost  and  defies  the  wind  and  the  rain,  that  it 
may  play  its  little  part  in  the  glory  of  the  hour.     Not  the 
lifelong  woodman  knows  the  real  strength  and  weakness 
of  the  forest  in  the  esteem  of  nature,  nor  measures  the 
struggle,   nor  marks   the   victory.     What   are   the   trees 
fighting  for?     Why  are  they  fighting  at  all?     For  mas- 
tery is  it,  or  for  arborial  happiness,  or  the  fullest  terms 
of  self-expression  within  the  powers  of  a  tree?     How 
comes  it  about  that  though  their  place  is  together,  and 
that  united  they  stand  to  conquer  storm  and  winter,  and 
so  prosper  in  a  fashion  impossible  under  isolation,  yet, 
deeper   than   this   gregarious   instinct    is    the   egregious 
prompting  to  battle?     While  making  common  cause  for 
common  weal,  they  wage  a  deadly  internal  war  within 


256  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

their  own  ranks,  and  every  tree  will  smother,  choke, 
starve  its  own  seedling  springing  at  its  feet  so  long  as  it 
holds  the  power  to  do  so  —  will  rob  its  children  of  the 
sunshine  above  and  the  food  in  the  earth  beneath,  while 
rob  it  can. 

Now  Yarner  ascended  to  the  full  passion  of  her  colour 
glory,  and  as  slowly  sank  therefrom.  The  leafy  harvest 
garnered  of  the  year  was  cast  from  her.  It  fell  and 
flew ;  it  whirled  in  a  dance  of  death  away  on  wild  winds 
up  into  the  sullen  clouds,  when  great  tempests  shook  the 
forest ;  it  dropped  through  breathless  and  starlit  nights, 
leaf  by  leaf  from  tree-top  to  tree-root,  making  loud  whis- 
pers in  the  fall  through  silence,  and  uttering  a  crisp,  un- 
ceasing stridulation.  For  each  emitted  a  succession  of 
tiny  sounds  in  its  descent  as  it  struck  this  bough  and 
that ;  and  breathed  finally  a  last  murmur,  like  a  sigh,  as  it 
sidled  to  earth  amid  the  congregation  of  its  kind.  And 
at  such  times,  even  in  the  stillest  night,  if  a  breath  stirred 
the  wood,  there  was  a  sudden  increase  in  the  small  voices 
of  the  loosened  leaves,  and  a  heightening  of  the  whisper 
where  many  set  out  on  their  descent  together. 

Now  death  and  life  are  the  twin  pageant  masters,  and, 
as  ever,  their  purposes  depend  upon  each  other.  Autumn 
has  drawn  a  radiant  mantle  over  summer,  a  robe  of  rain- 
bows, as  symbolical  of  dissolution  as  the  charnel  house ; 
yet  the  passing  of  the  leaves  darkens  no  conscious  intelli- 
gence with  a  sense  of  death.  It  is  felt  rather  as  an  essen- 
tial, recurrent  flash  and  foam  on  the  deep  waters  of  life, 
that  roll  beneath  it,  when  the  long  year's  sunset  shines 
upon  their  waves.  But  the  dead  tree  that  thrusts  forth 
here  in  the  forest,  robbed  of  all  dancing,  delicate  branch 
and  twig,  shorn,  stricken  and  stunted,  staring  from  the 
fire  and  glow  like  a  silver  skeleton  at  the  autumnal  feast 
—  the  dead  tree  it  is  that  writes  death  into  the  forest 
and  towers  pallid  and  heart-festered  through  a  brief 
decade  before  it  falls  and  spreads  matured  corruption 
for  life  to  root  in.  Life  is  ever  on  the  watch  for  death, 
and  not  only  the  withered  leaf  and  cankerous  bough  fall 
to  earth  in  the  forest :  life  also  descends  with  them  in 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  257 

rain  of  flying  seed  and  berry.  A  new  generation  of 
acorn  and  ash-key,  beech-mast  and  filbert,  will  inherit 
the  dominion  of  Yarner,  and  fortify  its  boundaries 
against  destruction  after  bird  and  beast  and  worm  have 
taken  their  full  need. 

And  still  the  truth  lurks  hidden,  as  deep  as  gem  in  heart 
of  mountains ;  quest  for  it  saddens  here,  maddens  there. 
All  ultimate  purpose  evades  conscious  intelligence ;  any 
ultimate  purpose  appears  profoundly  doubtful.  The 
crushing  imperatives  of  nature :  slavery  and  labour  alone 
stare  forth  nakedly  at  all  seasons;  but  the  very  concept 
of  nature,  in  its  vagueness,  casts  down  more  than  it 
heartens  and  stands  for  a  narcotic  rather  than  a  tonic 
force  —  since  all  confession  of  ignorance  must  be  de- 
pressing. To  understand  is  impossible,  and  our  failure 
drives  faint  hearts  upon  a  suspicion  that  there  is  nothing 
to  understand.  Yet,  were  it  even  so,  this  manifestation 
of  matter  in  shape  of  many  trees  growing  upon  a  wild 
place,  is  powerful  to  touch  the  spirit  of  man.  Its  phe- 
nomena stamp  with  their  proper  signet  of  mystery  and 
wonder ;  they  cheer  or  chill ;  they  challenge ;  they  satisfy 
never,  and  they  send  none  empty  away. 

The  open  mind  is  vital,  for  that  only  receives,  that 
only  hungers  and  begs,  that  only  comes  forth  from  a 
forest's  shadow  lit  by  the  aura  of  such  communion.  They 
who  approach,  preoccupied  with  life,  careful  and  troubled, 
blinded  by  opinion,  husked  and  scaled  in  supernatural 
conviction,  proud  of  their  sciolisms,  fanatic  in  their  Art 
formulae  —  all  such  bear  from  these  confines  no  more 
than  a  withered  leaf  clinging  to  their  feet,  or  a  clawed 
seed  to  their  raiment. 


17 


CHAPTER  II 

The  day  at  best  was  dark,  for  low  cloud-banks  ran  over 
the  Moor  and  hung  heavy  above  Yarner ;  but  beneath  the 
trees,  where  oaks  still  held  the  leaf,  it  seemed  that  night 
was  near.  Gloom  buried  the  woods;  the  wet  air  was 
full  of  the  scent  of  moss ;  underfoot  the  ways  were  silent 
and  sodden,  for  the  crisp  noise  and  busy  movement  of 
the  fallen  leaf  had  been  stilled  awhile  by  torrential  rains. 

To  Drusilla  Redstone  every  manifestation  of  her 
maiden  haunts  returned  in  precious  memories,  and  though 
a  pang  often  killed  her  peace  and  woke  her  to  miserable 
wonder  before  some  familiar  tryst;  though  the  curtains 
now  and  again  lifted  from  a  scene  memorable  and  sacred 
to  another  than  her  husband,  such  was  the  woman's  emo- 
tional character  in  its  clash  of  contradictions  that  con- 
tentment rather  than  trouble  reigned. 

She  moved  now  through  this  familiar  twilight  not  un- 
happily, and  saw  on  every  hand  repeated  the  scenes  proper 
to  the  time.  The  return  to  Yarner  had  chimed  with 
the  mighty  event  of  marriage,  and  that  experience,  break- 
ing upon  her  life,  served  to  deepen  the  abyss  that  seemed 
to  separate  the  present  from  the  past.  The  forest's  self 
did  not  bridge  it.  Drusilla  turned  her  back  on  every- 
thing that  had  gone  before,  and  close  companionship  with 
Redstone  helped  her  to  do  so.  In  some  doubt,  and  in- 
fluenced by  more  forces  than  one,  she  wedded  him  with 
little  anticipation  that  her  new  life  would  brighten  into 
a  blessed  thing,  or  that,  on  her  side,  she  might  have  power 
to  realise  his  joyful  expectations.  But  swiftly  after  mar- 
riage her  horizons  had  lifted ;  light  and  air  and  enlarge- 
ment of  ideas  had  come.  With  Redstone  it  was  good  to 
live.  He  never  troubled  about  her  inner  nature;  he 
worshipped  her  and  lifted  her  to  a  dizzy  height ;  but  he 

258 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  259 

was  strong  and  not  uxorious;  he  was  cheerful,  Hved  on 
the  surface,  and  probed  neither  his  own  nor  any  other 
man's  secrets  of  disposition.  A  great  charity  marked 
him,  and  from  the  lofty  standpoint  of  his  own  good 
fortune  he  could  find  it  in  him  to  sympathise  with  all 
men.  Nor  did  he  stop  at  that :  there  was  in  him  a  rare 
trick  to  take  pains  for  other  people  and  do  kind  actions 
that  must  go  unpaid  for  ever.  He  was  hot-tempered  and 
quick  to  take  fire  at  real  or  fancied  wrong ;  but  when  he 
erred,  he  forgot  it  as  quickly  as  when  he  did  a  gracious 
deed.  He  had,  too,  a  saving  sense  of  the  humour  of 
life.  He  laughed  at  the  pitiful  and  futile  —  laughed  at 
his  own  vagaries  as  often  as  at  another's.  He  took  him- 
self no  more  seriously  than  other  people.  He  held  ex- 
istence on  a  light  rein,  and,  believing  in  nothing  and 
fearing  nothing,  won  some  of  a  child's  joy  from  life  — 
that  pagan  zest  recorded  as  a  possession  of  the  Golden 
Age  —  an  unclouded  content  with  to-day  and  trust  in 
to-morrow.  John  Redstone  never  looked  behind,  and  he 
never  looked  very  far  ahead.  For  the  past,  he  was  sat- 
isfied to  let  impenetrable  curtains  hide  it,  and  in  the  fine 
fervour  of  his  present  delights  with  Drusilla,  the  past 
indeed  was  well  lost.  As  to  the  future,  he  only  pondered 
it  on  her  account.  Unconsciously  his  attitude  influenced 
her  in  everything.  While  Snow,  with  hts  loftier  ideals 
and  acute  self-consciousness,  had  led  her  in  his  own  path 
and  fostered  a  natural  morbidity,  Redstone's  more  easy- 
going attitude  to  life  (combined  with  a  love  of  laughter 
that  the  other  lacked),  served  to  banish  doubt  and  fear, 
and  breed  not  indifference,  but  a  spirit  of  serenity  that 
promised  to  become  indifference. 

She  could  not  choose  but  contrast  the  men  sometimes, 
and  perceive  the  fundamental  opposition  in  their  phi- 
losophy of  life.  They  differed  as  the  dawn  light  differs 
from  the  sunset,  the  moon  from  the  sun.  One  was 
higher  than  the  other,  and  cleverer  far;  but  which  was 
wiser?  The  pity  and  compassion  that  Timothy  loathed, 
Redstone  practised;  the  readiness  to  help  the  weak  that 
Snow  held  weakness,  John  lost  no  opportunity  of  render- 


26o  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

ing.  His  nature  was  benignant  and  generous  —  qualities 
of  very  doubtful  value  in  the  esteem  of  the  other.  There 
was,  moreover,  this  radical  difference  betw^een  them : 
while  Timothy  analysed,  weighed,  reflected  upon  conduct, 
Redstone  merely  unfolded  without  deliberation,  like  the 
petal  of  a  flower.  He  was  a  thoughtless  wight  of  low 
mental  calibre  —  merely  a  creature  inherently  humane 
and  unconsciously  alive  to  the  rights  of  others  and  his 
obligations  to  his  kind,  according  to  the  tenets  of  a  con- 
science mother-taught.  He  had  never  weighed  the  teach- 
ing or  thought  about  it.  He  had  merely  absorbed  it 
and  practised  it.  But  he  was  also  himself.  His  nature 
had  not  prevented  him  from  destroying  a  fellow-creature 
in  a  fit  of  rage ;  though  it  had  prevented  him  from  suf- 
fering remorse  or  regret.  Lot's  death  hurt  none :  had 
it  done  so,  or  reduced  any  innocent  creature  to  need 
and  suffering,  Redstone  would  have  acknowledged  the 
two-fold  effect  of  the  action,  and  lamented  it,  in  so  far 
as  it  injured  somebody  else.  He  went  further,  and 
granted  that  he  had  injured  the  dead;  but  that  he  did 
not  regret,  since  the  dead  had  proposed  to  injure  him. 
He  proceeded  with  his  life  absolved  of  all  discomfort ; 
and  not  even  dread  of  discovery  and  punishment  cast  a 
cloud  on  the  radiant  sky  of  his  happiness  at  this  season. 
He  was  glad  to  be  in  Yarner  again,  because  Drusilla  was 
glad. 

His  wife  now  climbed  the  wood  to  meet  him,  and 
presently  she  did  so  —  at  a  little  hollow  where  ran  a 
path  aloft  in  the  higher  coverts.  She  put  down  the  frail 
in  which  she  had  brought  him  food,  and  he  hugged  her. 

"  Lord !  to  see  you  properly  happy !  'Tis  meat  and 
drink  to  me,"  he  said.  "  I  never  thought  you  could  be 
so  happy  as  you  be,  and  I'll  swear  you  never  was  afore 
we  got  hitched  up." 

"  I  never  thought  to  be  so  happy." 

He  sat  on  a  fallen  tree,  and  fed.  Then  she  showed 
him  a  little  purple  lobelia  that  she  had  picked,  and  thrust 
it  in  his  coat. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  261 

"  'Tis  the  rarest  flower  in  Yarner,  but  not  so  rare  as 
you,  John !  " 

"  To  think  what  your  eyes  spy  out !  And  I  never  seed 
it  all  these  years." 

They  were  in  the  rose  light  still,  and  played  together 
while  he  ate  and  drank.  He  made  her  nibble  his  food 
and  sip  of  the  cold  tea  in  an  old  spirit  bottle  that  she  had 
brought  him. 

'"  The  leaves  be  too  thick  yet  for  pheasant  shooting," 
he  said ;  "  but  there's  a  brave  show  of  birds  by  the  look 
of  it.  I  marked  that  to  Amos  Kingdon  this  morning. 
'  Ah,'  I  said,  '  'pears  to  me  that  there's  a  lot  more  pheas- 
ants than  in  my  time,'  I  said.  '  That's  not  your  work,  nor 
yet  mine,  Amos:  that's  Timothy  Snow's  work,  and  the 
credit  should  be  his ! '  Old  Amos  sniffed,  I  warn  'e ! 
Never  did  like  Snow  —  the  man  was  too  masterful  for 
him.  And  a  master  he'll  be  when  he  comes  home,  sure 
enough.     Born  to  be,  you  might  say." 

A  squirrel  barked  from  a  bough,  and  Drusilla  smiled 
up  at  it.  She  could  hear  the  name  of  Timothy  without 
grief  now,  but  not  without  ache.  Her  mind  associated 
him  with  supreme  suffering,  and,  without  her  volition, 
acted  unjustly  to  him,  misled  in  the  subtle  labyrinths  of 
emotion  and  experience  that  extended  between  them. 
She  ceased  to  show  trouble  at  the  mention  of  Timothy, 
and  Redstone  supposed  that  she  ceased  to  feel  it.  There- 
fore he  alluded  to  Snow  when  the  occasion  rose,  though 
until  he  was  convinced  that  Drusilla  cared  no  more,  he 
was  heedful  not  to  do  so.  Much,  however,  despite  the 
happiness  that  had  surprised  her,  she  still  hid  from  her 
husband,  and  a  little  she  hid  from  herself.  She  smarted 
sometimes  to  find  how  indifferent  she  had  become  to 
the  other,  and  felt  almost  guilty  to  perceive  how  well 
Redstone's  easy  way  suited  her.  At  first  she  found  it 
in  her  heart,  from  the  present  snug  happiness  of  autumn 
nights  by  her  husband's  side,  to  look  back  at  the  other 
man,  envy  his  standpoint  and  suspect  that  his  outlook, 
if  a  bleaker  and  a  colder  one,  yet,  by  those  very  qualities, 


262  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

proclaimed  itself  as  lifted  higher  in  the  scale  of  life 
than  her  own.  Such  reflection,  however,  became  more 
rare,  and  in  time  she  altogether  changed  her  opinion, 
for  she  loved  John  Redstone  better  every  day,  and  his 
iinsubtle,  generous  character  impressed  her  as  more  and 
more  precious.  She  remembered  Timothy's  severe  judg- 
ments and  censures,  and  contrasted  them  with  her  hus- 
band's large  tolerance.  But  Snow  had  always  seemed 
faultless,  and  could  therefore,  perhaps,  afford  to  be  im- 
patient of  others'  faults ;  while  John  erred,  and  was  the 
dearer  for  his  humanity. 

They  went  presently  by  a  little  stream  that  wound  un- 
derneath a  grove  of  alders.  These  still  preserved  a  vig- 
orous verdancy,  while  loftier  trees  rained  down  their 
leaves  around  them ;  and  beneath,  though  the  brake  was 
down,  lady  fern,  and  buckler  fern,  shield  fern,  and  harts'- 
tongue  still  preserved  their  green,  and  the  wood  sorrel's 
foliage  had  suffered  no  stain.  The  little  river  babbled 
briskly  over  a  gravel  bottom,  and  trout,  like  grey  shad- 
ows, sped  through  it.  Liverworts  and  mosses  made  ves- 
ture for  the  brink,  and  beyond  this  place,  visible  through 
a  rift  in  the  woods,  there  rose  the  shattered  masonry  of 
the  mine.  That  sight  always  cast  the  thought  of  Dru- 
silla  in  one  direction,  and  neither  she  nor  John  ever 
hesitated  to  discuss  the  problem  of  Lot  Snow's  disap- 
pearance. But  the  man's  theory  had  convinced  her  now, 
though  for  a  time  she  clung  to  her  own.  At  first  she 
earnestly  hoped  that  he  might  reappear  alive,  since  any 
horror  must  be  better  than  the  capital  horror  of  his  death  ; 
any  punishment  must  fall  short  of  that  terror  a  mur- 
derer must  be  assumed  to  feel ;  but  Redstone  had  altered 
her  views  radically  in  this  matter.  He  had  brought  her 
to  see  with  his  own  eyes  that  no  dread  of  the  future 
troubled  him,  and  that  his  conscience  went  ungalled.  He 
had  also  convinced  her  that  Snow  was  most  certainly 
dead. 

Now  he  repeated  his  opinion  and  theory  of  the  event 
with  his  glance  on  the  mine  shaft. 

"  'Tis  borne  in  upon  me  stronger  and  stronger  that  he's 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  263 

not  far  off,"  said  John ;  and  when  the  keeper  spoke  of 
"  he  "  or  "  him,"  the  dead  was  meant. 

"  He  fell  at  my  blow  and  lost  his  wits ;  and  then,  when 
you  and  me  was  away,  he  come  to  again  in  the  dark,  and 
groped  to  seek  his  pony.  'Twas  gone.  Then  moving 
on,  maimed  and  dazed  in  the  dark  —  for  dark  it  was  by 
then  —  he  failed  in  somewheres  and  broke  his  neck.  He 
might  have  travelled  out  of  Yarner  up  to  the  Hey  Tor 
quarries  or  other  holes  round  about ;  or  he  might  have 
gone  no  more  than  ten  yards  and  fallen  into  one  of  them 
deep  rifts  by  the  mine  itself.  There's  places  there  if  you 
fell  in,  you'd  never  more  be  heard  of.  And  that's  what 
he  did,  very  like.  Sometimes  I  think  I'll  have  a  hunt  my- 
self—  just  to  satisfy  my  interest  —  but  then  I  think  I 
won't,  for  if  I  found  the  carcase  of  the  old  rascal,  what 
should  I  do  about  it  ?  " 

She  winced. 

"  Let  the  thing  be  forgot.  You  didn't  mean  nothing 
like  that.  Men  have  hit  men  in  anger  before  now  and 
nothing  come  of  it." 

"  I  don't  trouble  about  that.  I'd  pull  his  bones  out  of 
any  pit  and  not  turn  a  hair.  But  there's  another  side  as 
well  as  my  interest.  Timothy  Snow's  case  will  be  a  good 
bit  altered,  they  tell  me.  Nought  can  be  done  for  seven 
year  if  Lot  ban't  run  to  earth." 

"  'Tis  no  odds  at  all,"  she  said.  "  For  practical  pur- 
poses Timothy  will  have  everything.  There's  only  his 
aunt  to  say  '  no,'  and  she's  praying  for  his  return  to 
hand  over  all." 

He  nodded. 

"  Quite  right,  too.  'Tis  terrible  interesting  to  know 
what  that  man  will  make  of  money  and  power.  A  great 
mind  he  hath,  and  very  brave  opinions.  And  now  he'll 
be  able  to  utter  'em  without  fear ;  because  the  shoe-licking 
world  will  take  anything  from  the  rich,  and  what  was 
damned  impudence  and  socialism  and  all  that  when  he 
was  a  gamekeeper,  will  be  sound  sense  now." 

"  He'll  be  like  to  work  more  good  with  the  money  than 
his  uncle  —  that's  certain  sure,"  she  said. 


264  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  Ess  fay !  And  when  I  see  the  man  doing  wise  things, 
and  practising  what  he  preached,  I'll  say  '  Ah,  Master 
Timothy !  But  for  Johnny  Redstone,  you'd  never  have 
had  such  a  chance  to  shine  afore  the  nation ! '  "  He 
laughed  at  the  idea.  "  There  'tis !  "  he  declared.  "  None 
will  give  me  any  credit  — '  credit '  no !  The  halter's  my 
portion,  according  to  man's  justice.  But  neither  one  nor 
t'other  will  belong  to  me.  Only  we  know  the  truth  of 
things ;  and  we  shall  watch  very  well  content  to  see  Tim 
at  his  work." 

"  I  wonder  if  he'll  marry  now  ?  " 

"  Marry  ?  Surely,  sooner  or  late.  'Twill  take  him  a 
good  few  years,  I  doubt  not  —  getting  over  your  change 
of  mind.  Though  you  had  as  much  right  to  change  your 
mind  as  any  other.  Love's  free,  and  love's  got  to  be 
free,  and  you  could  no  more  keep  it  burning  for  him 
when  it  went  out,  than  you  could  put  it  out  for  me  when 
by  good  luck  I  found  the  trick  to  light  it  again.  'Tis  all 
in  that  word.  His  fire  went  out  and  mine  kept  in. 
Love's  a  difficult  thing,  and  harder  far  for  a  woman  than 
a  man,  because  there's  a  lot  of  silly  unwritten  laws 
seemingly  that  hamper  her  and  keep  her  mouth  shut 
when  she'd  like  to  open  it,  and  make  her  open  it  when 
she'd  sooner  not.  But  you  —  you  was  above  all  that 
foolery,  and  had  the  pluck  of  a  thousand  common 
women ;  and  because  you  couldn't  love  the  man  no  more, 
you  wasn't  ashamed,  even  at  cost  of  your  suffering  and 
his  rage,  to  tell  him  straight.  And  right  you  were,  for 
now  all's  above  board,  and  you  can  meet  him  fair  and 
square ;  and  so  can  I." 

She  did  not  pursue  this  subject,  but  made  a  diversion. 
They  were  by  the  stew-pond  now,  for  their  woodland  way 
had  brought  them  to  it.  The  still  water  spread  like  a 
sheet  of  dark  jade  amid  the  flame  of  the  trees.  Beside 
it  stood  certain  buckthorns  whose  foliage  was  crimson 
and  whose  berries  were  black.  Great  scarlet  fungi 
splashed  the  mossy  road,  and  a  white  swan,  seeing  Dru- 
silla,  set  out  to  swim  across  the  pond  to  her  for  food. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  265 

She  found  some  fragments  in  the  frail,  and  the  bird  de- 
voured them. 

A  fir-tree  had  fallen  from  a  bank,  and  crossed  the  road 
at  the  height  of  a  man's  shoulder. 

"  I  must  see  Saul  Butt,"  said  the  keeper ;  "  he  don't 
know  about  this  accident,  and  if  Sir  Percy  finds  it  afore 
he  do,  there'll  be  a  row." 

"  Sir  Percy's  grandson  is  home  again  —  Mr.  Eustace." 

"  He  is,  and  he'll  be  after  that  beautiful  creature,  Au- 
drey Leaman,  once  more,  I  reckon.  They  Champer- 
nownes  never  know  when  they  be  beat.  But  she's  a  bit 
too  fly  to  play  about  with  him.  Little  liar !  She  told  me 
he'd  offered  to  marry  her !  " 

"  I  wonder  if  Timothy  will  think  of  her  —  now,"  mused 
Drusilla ;  but  her  husband  doubted  it. 

"  Not  he.  She  never  was  his  sort,  else  he  wouldn't 
have  fallen  in  love  with  you.  She's  a  rare  girl,  and  I 
like  her,  and  she  likes  me ;  but  she  ban't  the  one  to  marry 
Timothy  Snow." 

"  The  sparks  would  soon  fly." 

"  And  so  would  she." 


CHAPTER  III 

It  was  not  often  that  Audrey  Leaman  quarrelled  with 
her  father,  and  indeed,  while  the  possibility  of  using  her 
in  the  game  of  life  persisted,  no  parent  could  have  kept  a 
child's  affection  more  carefully  than  did  Willes  Leaman 
of  Middlecot.  But  busy  neighbours  had  told  him  that 
his  daughter  saw  too  much  of  her  postman  and  of  Fred- 
erick Moyle,  the  constable;  therefore,  since  Timothy 
Snow  was  about  to  return  home,  a  free  and  a  rich  man, 
the  farmer  tackled  Audrey  in  earnest,  and  exhibited  a 
severity  very  unusual.  It  sprang  from  one  cause  —  a 
fact  his  daughter  well  knew  —  but  he  pretended  that  his 
reason  was  different. 

"  A  Leaman,"  he  said  — "  a  Leaman  to  carry  on  unbe- 
knownst with  a  married  man!  'Tis  a  shameful  thing, 
Audrey,  and  the  like  was  never  heard  in  our  family. 
And  him  only  a  twopenny-halfpenny  postman  at  best. 
Where's  your  pride?  You  know,  none  better,  how  the 
people  talk,  and  how  lightning  quick  they  are  to  blaze  it 
out  if  one  of  the  bettermost  slips.  And  where  there's 
smoke  there's  fire,  and  a  young  woman,  especially  such 
a  beautiful  creature  as  you,  can't  be  too  careful  of  her 
behaviour  in  public  and  private." 

Audrey  laughed. 

"  I  know  who's  frightened  you,"  she  said,  "  one  of 
them  two  old  sisters  at  Bag  Tor  Mill.  I  was  out  that 
way  for  a  walk,  and  saw  a  grey  weasel  looking  round 
the  corner  of  the  washing  in  the  meadow.  *  She'll  tell 
she's  seen  you  and  me  walking  here,'  I  said  to  my 
friend,  and  — " 

"  There  'tis !  "  burst  out  her  father.  "  Your  '  friend,' 
indeed !  A  nice  friend  for  a  maiden  —  another  woman's 
husband ! " 

"You're  all  behind  the  times,  father.     I  hear  a  bit 

266 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  267 

through  Mr.  Eustace,  who  will  be  talking  when  I  chance 
to  meet  him.  'Tis  a  thing  of  every  day  for  a  married 
man  to  have  a  woman  friend  beside  his  wife,  and  for  a 
married  woman  to  have  a  man  friend  beside  her  hus- 
band." 

"  More  shame  to  'em,  then.  And,  whether  or  no,  you 
ban't  married,  and  if  you  don't  watch  it  you'll  end  by 
missing  a  husband  of  your  own  altogether." 

"  There's  always  other  people's  husbands,"  she  said. 

"  You  may  joke,"  he  answered,  "  though  such  jokes 
show  only  too  clear  how  loose  you  be  taking  to  think. 
You  may  joke,  Audrey,  and  I  daresay  postmen  and  po- 
licemen and  a  few  more  like  them  laugh  at  your  jokes ; 
but  I  don't  laugh,  and  your  mother  don't  laugh,  and  the 
proper,  sensible,  marrying  men  looking  out  for  wives 
don't  laugh.  They  may  waste  their  time  in  light  mo- 
ments with  the  light  sort ;  but  when  life  stares  'em  in  the 
face,  and  they've  got  to  choose  a  partner,  they  look  else- 
where." 

"What's  that  tome?" 

"  Nothing  now,  but  some  fine  day  you'll  wish  you'd 
thought  upon  it.  You  won't  be  young  alv/ays,  and  you 
won't  be  beautiful  always." 

"  Yes,  I  shall,"  she  said.  "  I'm  the  thin,  light-built, 
graceful  sort  that  wear  to  the  end.  I  shan't  never  get 
full  blown,  if  I  take  care  of  myself  and  keep  going. 
Plenty  of  time  for  me.  I  won't  let  a  husband  knock  me 
to  pieces.  I'm  not  common  cloam  —  so  I've  been  told, 
anyhow  —  and  the  chap  that  marries  me  will  have  to 
understand  that,  and  hear  my  views  and  learn  what  he 
may  expect  and  what  he  must  not  expect.  Grandfather 
used  to  say,  '  'Tis  no  good  growing  old  unless  you  grow 
artful.'  That's  all  right.  And  I've  grown  too  artful  to 
grow  old  yet  a  while.  And  marriage  is  to  put  on  the 
clock  a  lot  too  fast." 

"  You  puzzle  me,"  he  declared.  "  Once,  when  Tim 
Snow  was  about,  you  didn't  talk  like  that.  And  now  he'll 
soon  be  about  again,  and  a  good  bit  closer  than  he  was." 

"  Yes,  I  know.     But  I've  learned  a  lot  since  he  went 


268  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

away.  'Tisn't  that  grapes  arc  sour,  as  some  might  think, 
but  I've  got  a  bit  beyond  him  now.  I've  had  talk  with  a 
higher  man  than  him,  and  there's  a  lot  in  blood,  and  I'm 
spun  fine  enough  to  see  that." 

"  If  you're  playing  about  with  a  gentleman  —  so  called 
—  you  look  out  for  yourself!"  he  said  angrily.  "For 
you  know  how  I  hate  that  class  —  knaves  all  —  and  a 
proper  fool  you'll  look  presently,  and  —  and  if  such  a 
thing  happened,  God's  my  judge,  but  I'd  cast  you  off!" 

"  If  what  happened?  "  she  asked.  "  You  didn't  use  to 
think  me  a  fool.  And  because  I  don't  share  your  class- 
hate  against  'em,  you've  no  right  to  talk  like  that.  I'll 
cast  you  off  if  you  bully  me,  father  —  yes,  I  will !  What 
have  I  done  to  hear  you  lift  your  voice  against  me  so? 
When  I  say  a  gentleman,  I  mean  a  gentleman  —  class  or 
no  class.  He  says  there's  no  such  thing  as  a  class  of 
gentlemen,  any  more  than  there  is  a  class  of  criminals. 
And  he's  taught  me  a  great  deal  worth  knowing,  and 
shown  me  that  Timothy  Snow's  not  the  high-water  mark 
of  what  a  man  can  be.  Why,  I  like  that  chap  Johnny 
Redstone  better  than  him !  And  so  in  the  end  did  Dru- 
silla  —  the  girl  Timothy  meant  to  marry.  That's  a  facer 
for  any  man,  and  will  open  Tim's  eyes  pretty  wide  I 
bet." 

"  You  talk,"  said  her  father,  "  and  you  pretend  more 
than  you  mean,  and  you  think  you're  made  of  finer  stuff 
than  your  father  and  mother,  because  some  scamp,  for 
his  own  doubtful  reasons,  tells  you  so ;  but  have  a  care 
and  behave  more  seemly,  and  let  your  life  be  what  a 
maiden's  life  should  be.  And  that's  not  always  gadding 
about  round  corners  with  a  man.  I  say  again  you'll 
soon  lose  your  character,  and  that  once  lost,  it  will  never 
be  found  no  more.  I  don't  fear  for  you,  because  you're 
a  lot  too  selfish  and  fond  of  Number  One  to  hurt  your- 
self, or  give  anything  for  nothing;  but,  in  a  place  like 
this,  a  girl  in  your  position  owes  something  to  her  family, 
and  you'll  do  well  to  remember  the  debt.  I've  educated 
you  above  your  station,  and  I  did  it  proudly,  but  I  don't 
want  it  flung  in  my  face  now,  and  I  don't  want  to  hear 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  269 

no  more  of  what  the  upper  class  women  —  so  to  call  'em 
—  do  and  don't  do.  I  want  you  to  behave,  and  you've 
got  to  behave  so  long  as  you  bide  at  Middlecot." 

She  considered,  and  surprise  rather  than  anger  influ- 
enced her. 

"  So  I  will,  then,"  she  said,  "  and  why  not  ?  And  don't 
you  think  that  you  and  mother  are  not  more  to  me  than 
anybody  else  in  the  world,  because  you  are.  If  you'd 
spoke  sooner,  I'd  have  acted  sooner,  but  I  didn't  know 
I  was  doing  anything  to  vex  you  running  about  and 
getting  fun  and  sense  where  I  could  find  them.  And 
the  gentleman  was  only  Mr.  Eustace  Champernowne, 
after  all.  He's  straight  enough,  God  knows,  and  a  very 
clever  man  with  high  moral  ideas  and  great  ambitions 
to  make  his  mark.  You'd  do  lots  and  lots  of  things,  and 
think  no  harm  of  'em,  that  he  would  die  rather  than  do. 
And  don't  you  fear  for  the  postman,  neither.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  he's  going  to  Bristol  —  got  work  there.  And 
his  mother  lives  there,  too  —  so  he'll  have  somebody  on 
his  side  against  his  wife.  He  and  his  wife  are  more 
friendly  now  he's  going." 

"  You  run  on  so,"  said  her  father.  "  I  never  can  tell 
what's  jest  and  what's  serious  with  you." 

"  You'll  see  when  Timothy  comes  back,"  she  an- 
swered. "  One  more  chance  he  shall  have  —  perhaps  — 
for  all  I'm  not  his  first  love.  But  I'm  terribly  afraid  I 
shall  see  his  faults  too  clear  to  stand  him  any  more.  'Tis 
the  humble  and  meek  ought  to  inherit  the  earth,  and  yet 
here's  Master  Tim  —  neither  meek  nor  humble,  whatever 
else  he  may  be  —  he'll  have  all  his  uncle's  property,  and 
if  I  don't  take  him,  no  doubt  we  shall  quarrel  like  cats 
over  his  land  and  mine  after  you  and  mother  are  dead 
and  gone." 

She  calmed  her  father  down,  and  sent  him  away  cheer- 
fully building  on  false  foundations.  For  her  mind  sought 
Timothy  Snow  no  more,  and  her  postman  and  policeman 
were  alike  sunk  to  shadows  in  her  regard.  The  former, 
indeed,  was  reconciled  to  his  wife,  and  therefore  became 
uninteresting  from  her  standpoint.     Another  attraction 


270  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

filled  her  horizon,  and  the  possibility  of  a  thing  that  she 
had  laughed  at  and  regarded  as  impossible  began  to  dawn 
upon  her.  She  reflected  over  a  future  widely  different 
from  any  her  father's  ambition  planned,  or  the  voice  of 
the  people  prophesied.  But  it  was  not  a  course  to  take 
in  a  light  spirit.  It  involved  much  patience  and  pro- 
tracted toil,  the  experience  of  humility,  the  practice  of 
artifice.  Whether  the  game  was  worth  the  candle  con- 
tinued to  be  a  question,  but  she  came  nearer  to  answering 
that  question  in  the  affirmative.  And  a  man  there  was 
who  laboured  very  steadily  to  make  her  do  so. 

She  set  about  a  letter  now,  and  wrote  page  after  page, 
conscious  that  she  could  not  write  more  than  one  pair 
of  eyes  would  love  to  read.  And  while  she  played  with 
tremendous  possibilities  lightly  and  humorously,  her 
father  entered  "  The  Coach  and  Horses  "  to  see  a  neigh- 
bour or  two,  hear  others'  news  and  relate  his  own. 

Amos  Kingdon  was  there,  and  the  farmer  found  him 
talking  with  Blackaller  and  Thomas  Turtle,  the  carrier. 
They  broke  off  at  his  coming  and  listened  to  him. 

"  No  more  news  of  Timothy  ?  "  he  asked.  "  I  haven't 
seen  Miss  Snow  for  a  good  bit,  I  suppose  he'll  be  on 
his  way  home  afore  long." 

"  I  fell  in  with  Sibella  Snow  but  yesterday,"  declared 
Ned  Blackaller.  "  She's  better,  but  suffering  terrors 
from  her  inside,  and  forced  to  take  physic.  And  whether 
Tim  Snow's  mother  will  come  along  with  him  be  doubt- 
ful still.  It  must  be  settled  by  now,  however,  for  he  was 
to  set  sail  afore  the  end  of  the  month." 

"  And  what  do  your  girl  think  about  it,  Leaman  ? " 
asked  the  carrier.  "  But  Master  Timothy  always  carried 
his  head  pretty  high  in  the  air,  and  now  he's  well-to-do, 
maybe  he'll  look  higher  than  her." 

"  '  Once  bit,  twice  shy,'  "  declared  Kingdon.  "  'Twas 
a  pretty  sharp  facer  for  him  when  that  nice,  everyday 
creature,  married  to  Redstone,  changed  her  mind.  I 
guess  he'll  bide  a  bachelor  now.  His  pride  wouldn't 
brook  a  second  fall  like  that." 

"  There  was  a  mystery  in  it,"  answered  Willes  Lea- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  271 

man.  "  We  may  know  the  rights  some  clay,  and  on  the 
other  hand  we  may  not ;  but  there  was  more  in  that  than 
appeared.  However,  the  young  woman's  happily  wedded 
by  all  accounts,  and  no  doubt  Johnny  Redstone  makes 
her  a  better  husband  than  what  Snow  would  have  done. 
Because  he's  a  humbler  man,  better  suited  to  her,  and  in 
her  own  rank  of  life.     Of  course  Snow  was  above  her." 

"  So  far  as  that  goes,  him  and  your  daughter  would  pair 
very  proper,"  admitted  Blackaller.  "  She's  terribly  lovely 
to  look  at.  Us  all  wondered  long  ago  how  he  could  re- 
sist her." 

"  We  shall  see  when  he  comes  back.  But  you  men 
mustn't  think  that  my  girl  would  run  after  him,  or  any- 
thing low  like  that.  'Tis  only  the  gentlefolk  go  hus- 
band-hunting. We've  got  too  much  self-respect,  I  hope; 
and  if  Snow  don't  want  her,  you  may  feel  very  sure  she 
don't  want  him." 

"  'Tis  a  strange  and  ugly  truth  how  the  gentlefolk  make 
marriage  a  business,"  admitted  Blackaller ;  "  though,  of 
course,  we  know  you  wouldn't  feel  like  that,  Leaman." 

He  turned  as  he  spoke  and  winked  at  Kingdon  and 
Turtle.  For  it  happened  when  the  farmer  entered  that 
Ned  had  been  explaining  the  situation,  and  assuring  his 
guests  that  the  farmer  would  pursue  Snow  to  the  bitter 
end.  It  was  notorious  that  Leaman  desired  the  match, 
and  the  host  of  "  The  Coach  and  Horses  "  did  not  hesi- 
tate to  declare  that  Audrey  would  run  down  Timothy 
Snow  on  his  return.  She  had  played  fast  and  loose,  so 
Ned  believed,  while  there  remained  a  doubt  of  Timothy's 
position ;  but  now  that  he  was  enriched,  she  would  hesi- 
tate no  more  and  capture  him.  Indeed,  Blackaller  hinted 
at  this  now. 

"  If  she  likes  him,  of  course  your  girl  will  marry  him 
—  trust  her  for  that.  But,  as  you  say,  the  Leaman  peo- 
ple are  far  too  fine  to  hunt  for  a  rich  man.  And  with 
such  a  bowerly  piece  as  your  girl,  'tis  the  men  will  come 
hunting  for  her." 

"  Which  they  do,  I'm  sure,"  added  Turtle,  "  for  you 
never  see  her  without  one.     A  fine  thing  like  her  will 


272  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

make  a  great  match  presently,  and  if  Snow  looks  high,  I 
daresay  your  daughter  looks  higher.  She  may  marry  a 
proper  gentleman  yet." 

But  the  father  of  Audrey  exploded  at  this  possibility. 

"  Damn  the  gentlemen !  "  he  said.  "  I'd  sooner  see  her 
in  her  grave  than  hitched  to  one  of  them  —  idle,  dis- 
honest, selfish  trash !  What  have  we  got  to  thank  them 
for?  I'll  give  a  golden  sovereign  to  anybody  that  can 
tell  me." 

"  For  education,"  answered  Blackaller.  "  They'm 
teaching  the  people;  and,  by  the  same  token,  there's  a 
new  Secondary  School  coming  to  Newton  afore  a  year's 
out." 

"  We  be  teaching  ourselves,"  answered  Leaman,  "  and 
devil  a  bit  of  schooling  would  the  poor  man's  child  get 
if  the  rich  had  their  way.  But  there's  pressure  on  the 
squire  now,  like  there's  pressure  on  the  parson.  Lot 
Snow  showed  me  that.  It  seems  that  the  learned  men 
of  science  have  knocked  the  bottom  out  of  a  lot  that 
parson  used  to  tell,  and  now,  when  he  goes  in  the  pulpit, 
he  don't  thunder  no  more  about  what's  true  and  what 
ban't.  He's  all  for  singing  small,  and  excusing  himself 
and  his  nonsense,  and  explaining  away  this,  and  explain- 
ing away  that.  He  don't  threaten  any  more ;  he  only 
bleats.  His  teeth  be  drawn,  and  soon  the  nation  will 
disestablish  the  Church,  and  then  they  parsons  will  have 
to  find  out  the  truth  about  themselves.  And  the  same 
with  squire  —  his  teeth  be  drawn,  too.  He  ban't  going 
to  batten  on  the  poor  any  more,  just  because  his  father 
and  his  grandfather  did ;  he  ban't  going  to  get  everything 
for  nothing  any  more.  For  why  ?  Along  of  this  educa- 
tion that  our  side  be  giving  the  people.  It  grows  by 
leaps  and  bounds,  and  we  be  sweeping  away  all  their 
machinery  for  keeping  us  under  very  quick,  now." 

"  Drink,  and  don't  get  in  a  rage,"  said  Turtle.  "  All 
the  same,  I'm  very  well  pleased  to  hear  you  talk  like 
that,  though,  for  my  own  part,  it  ban't  so  much  the  gentle- 
man proper  I  object  to,  but  that  nasty,  shop-keeping, 
meddling,  filching,  lower  middle  class  sort  that  get  into 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  273 

the  Councils,  and  take  on  all  the  work  for  their  private 
ends.  Big  toads  in  little  puddles  they  be.  If  there's  one 
sort  I  pray  to  be  delivered  from  'tis  the  Guardians. 
Curse  'em !  '  Guardians  '  —  what  do  they  guard  ?  Their 
own  fat  pockets.  Whose  interests  do  they  fight  for? 
The  poor  ?  No,  by  God !  their  own.  The  coarse-minded 
devils  think  that  the  poor  have  got  no  pride,  and  they 
probe  with  their  claws  and  trample  with  their  hoofs  — 
blast  'em !  The  questions  they  ask !  You  wouldn't  ask 
a  pig  down  on  his  luck  such  questions,  let  alone  a  pauper. 
The  Poor  Law's  a  filthy  thing  at  best,  and  I'd  vote  social- 
ist if  only  to  see  that  swept  away." 

"  Good  sense,"  declared  Blackaller.  "  They  low-bred, 
money-grubbing  shop-people  are  a  cruel  class,  and  would 
sell  their  mothers'  skins  for  money.  They  grind  the  face 
of  the  poor  far  worse  than  what  the  rich  do.  The  rich 
don't  pretend  they  like  us.  They  hate  us,  and  we  hate 
them,  and  there's  no  pretence.  But  these  half-way  jack- 
als and  vultures  —  they  do  pretend.  They  play  for  their 
own  foul  hands  all  the  time  —  against  rich  and  poor 
both." 

"  And  suck  our  blood  while  they  pretend  to  lick  our 
wounds,"  cried  Turtle.  "To  hell  with  them  —  that's 
where  I'd  have  them.  And  when  we  rise  in  our  might 
and  majesty  'tis  the  smug,  sticky  shopkeepers  I'd  string 
up  first.  '  Poor  Law  Guardians  ' —  the  name  stinks ! 
'Tis  only  a  beastly  sort  of  mind  would  sink  to  the  work. 
But  when  you  know  why  they  do  it  —  to  rob  the  power- 
less poor  —  you  understand  all  about  'em." 

"  Educate  —  educate  —  educate,  be  the  word,"  said 
Blackaller.  "  But  it  must  never  be  said  as  the  rich  edu- 
cated the  poor  —  I  won't  hear  that.  'Tis  nonsense  on  the 
face  of  it;  for  the  rich  be  far  too  clever  to  cut  their 
own  throats ;  and  well  they  know  that  to  make  the  poor 
understand  was  to  queer  their  own  pitch  once  for  all. 
We've  fought  Church  and  State  both  for  knowledge  — 
and  we're  winning.  We've  got  to  thank  neither  one  nor 
t'other  for  anything,  and  even  when  they  be  swept  away, 

like  a  dead  man  out  of  mind,  'twill  take  generations  and 
18 


274  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

generations  of  cleansing  and  scouring  afore  we  get  the 
smell  of  'em  out  of  the  world." 

Amos  Kingdon  showed  great  uneasiness  at  these  senti- 
ments. 

"  You'll  frighten  honest  men  away  from  here,  Ned, 
if  you  ban't  more  careful,"  he  said  sorrowfully.  "  You 
go  too  far  altogether ;  and  I  wouldn't  answer  for  the 
consequence  if  the  lord  of  the  manor  got  to  know  about 
it  —  or  your  brewers  either.  Landmarks  is  landmarks, 
and  bulwarks  is  bulwarks,  and  if  you  had  your  way 
you'd  throw  down  every  one  of  'em.  And  if  I  thought 
you  meant  half  you  said,  so  fierce  and  rash  and  reckless 
—  or  Turtle  either,  or  farmer  here  as  well,  then  I'd 
take  it  as  a  very  serious  and  dangerous  thing,  and  keep 
your  company  no  more.  You  forget  Who  manages  the 
world,  and  Who  gives  the  power  to  human  hands,  and 
'tis  indecent  and  unfair  to  a  large  body  of  well-meaning, 
busy  men  to  say  as  God  has  forgot  the  Poor  Law  Guard- 
ians." 

Willes  Leaman  laughed  and  jested. 

"  Oh  no,  my  dear  man,  me  and  my  friends  wouldn't 
say  for  a  minute  as  God's  forgot  'em,  would  we,  Thomas 
Turtle?  God  helps  those  who  help  themselves  —  eh? 
Then  'tis  very  certain  He's  on  the  side  of  the  Guardians, 
for  nobody  can  deny  they  do  that ! " 


CHAPTER  IV 

At  Yarner  edge,  upon  the  old  tram  line,  there  walked 
Frederick  Moyle  and  Audrey  Leaman.  They  met  by 
appointment,  and  it  was  he  who  had  made  it. 

The  man  now  passed  through  a  period  of  concealed 
stress  and  tension,  for  the  event  of  his  life  was  at  hand, 
and,  by  anticipating  it  through  many  weeks,  he  had 
begged  his  nervous  energy  and  exhausted  his  imagina- 
tion. Such  was  the  activity  of  his  mind  before  the  ap- 
proaching triumph  that  he  seemed  already  to  have  lived 
through  it  in  every  detail.  There  was  only  lacking  the 
applause  of  his  neighbours,  and  the  consciousness  that 
a  revenge  long  delayed  had  reached  completion.  He 
turned  now  from  the  thought  of  Timothy  Snow  to  a 
possibility  he  still  cherished  as  resultant  of  his  triumph. 
He  had  not  abandoned  all  hope  of  Audrey  Leaman  for 
a  wife,  and  in  truth  the  maiden's  devious  line  of  conduct 
lent  some  colour  to  his  ambition.  For  she  continued 
very  friendly ;  she  accepted  little  gifts ;  she  walked  with 
him  by  private  ways,  and  even  confided  some  secrets 
to  him. 

He  had  hoped  therefore,  that,  in  the  light  of  the  glory 
presently  to  shine  upon  him,  Audrey  might  be  tempted, 
and  he  pictured  himself  as  promoted  to  more  important 
work  in  a  city  with  her  by  his  side.  His  mind  at  this 
season  was  a  little  off  the  balance ;  otherwise  he  might 
have  perceived  that  there  was  much  in  her  thoughts 
concealed  from  him.  But  during  the  present  interview 
a  great  change  had  flashed  over  the  ambition  of  Fred- 
erick Moyle.  It  seemed  in  Audrey's  presence  that  there 
might  be  more  notable  achievements  even  than  his  forth- 
coming revenge.  He  began  to  consider  whether  this 
woman  would  be  a  more  precious  possession  than  fame, 
and  whether,  if  indeed  she  cared  still  for  Snow,  he  might 

275 


276  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

not  use  Snow  to  win  her  in  a  very  different  manner  from 
that  first  intended. 

By  a  sudden  vagueness  before  his  speeches,  by  wander- 
ing eyes  and  her  anxiety  to  learn  the  time,  Audrey  now 
indicated  that  Moyle  was  not  interesting  her  vitally, 
though  the  things  that  he  spoke  were  vital. 

It  had  come  to  his  ears  from  various  quarters  that 
she  awaited  the  return  of  Timothy  Snow  with  much  ex- 
citement; indeed,  she  herself  did  not  hesitate  to  admit 
it  to  Moyle.  This  she  told  him  for  her  own  purpose, 
and  that  he  might  repeat  the  fact;  but  her  real  reasons 
for  conveying  the  impression  of  acute  interest  in  the 
matter  were  known  to  none.  Moyle,  therefore,  took 
them  at  the  face  value,  and  suspected  that  Audrey  was 
still  anxious  to  win  Timothy.  The  thought  inspired  him 
quite  suddenly  to  consider  a  new  line  of  action.  The 
magnitude  of  the  idea  unsettled  him,  and  he  felt  that 
he  could  not  set  it  clearly  forth  at  such  short  notice.  He 
perceived  the  delicacy  and  danger  of  so  doing.  Indeed, 
for  the  moment,  before  the  extreme  difficulty  of  the 
task,  he  was  almost  minded  to  abandon  it.  He  chose  a 
middle  way,  approached  the  subject  tentatively,  and  kept 
on  sure  ground.  There  appeared,  however,  a  prelimi- 
nary need  to  probe  Audrey's  own  hopes  and  dreams ;  and 
he  prepared  to  do  so,  quite  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  such 
hopes  were  only  simulated  to  gain  her  private  ends.  The 
comedy  proceeded  lazily  for  a  time,  and  it  was  not  until 
his  companion  opened  the  way  to  what  Moyle  desired  to 
discuss  that  the  interest  sharply  deepened  for  both  of 
them. 

"  He's  to  be  home  to-morrow,"  she  said,  after  de- 
sultory talk  on  various  subjects.  "  Tim  Snow,  I  mean. 
'Twill  be  rather  interesting  to  see  how  he  takes  his 
money  and  all  that.  He'll  carry  his  head  pretty  high,  no 
doubt.  And  I  shall  feel  a  pleasure  in  saying  that  'tis 
all  nonsense,  and  that  I  believe  Lot  Snow's  coming  home 
again  some  fine  day." 

"  You  can  save  your  breath,  then,"  answered  the  other, 
"  for  Timothy  Snow  won't  believe  you.     And  that  brings 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  277 

me  to  what  I  wanted  to  say,  Audrey.  You  asked  me 
just  now  what  it  was,  and  I  put  you  off  a  minute  and 
talked  about  lesser  things,  because  for  my  life  I  didn't 
see  quite  how  to  begin." 

"  If  'tis  about  Timothy  Snow,  you  might  have  begun 
right  away,  and  then  you  wouldn't  have  bored  me,  as 
you  did  do  coming  down  the  hill.  You  know  very  well 
nothing  would  have  interested  me  so  much." 

"  Is  that  true  ?  If  so  I  want  you  to  pull  in  your  horns 
a  bit.  I'm  on  ticklish  ground,  I  know  that.  I  quarrelled 
with  the  man  bitterly,  and  you  remember  if  I  had  rea- 
son or  not.  You  remember  that  down  here,  not  half  a 
mile  from  where  we  stand  this  minute,  he  struck  me 
and  cursed  me ;  and  since  I  was  in  the  wrong  —  though 
your  fault,  Audrey  —  I  could  do  nothing.  I  was  terrible 
angered,  then  I  vowed  vengeance,  and  forgot  I  was  a 
policeman,  and,  made  a  fool  of  myself.  I  know  that 
only  too  well,  and  to  a  proud  man  like  me  'twas  bad  to 
know  it,  and  suffer  it.  It  altered  my  life  in  a  way.  I'd 
been  easy  and  a  bit  crooked  here  and  there  before  that. 
But  that  blow  seemed  to  let  light  into  my  mind,  and 
show  me  life  was  a  real,  earnest  thing.  And  when  I 
thought  about  it  in  cold  blood  I  got  gradually  to  see  that 
instead  of  hating  Snow  for  what  he  had  done,  I  ought 
to  have  been  obliged  to  him." 

Audrey  was  interested  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  My  goodness !  "  she  said.  "  Who'd  ever  expect  to 
hear  you  talk  like  that,  Frederick  ?  " 

"  It  took  me  a  long  time  to  come  to  it ;  but  I  did, 
and  I'm  not  ashamed  to  see  things  as  they  are.  And 
you're  not  the  only  one  I've  spoke  to  like  this.  Ask 
Blackaller,  or  your  father,  or  old  Kingdon,  the  keeper. 
They've  heard  me  say  pretty  bitter  things  against  Snow ; 
and  so  I  took  good  care  they  should  hear  me  eat  my 
words,  which  I  have  done.  I  harbour  no  ill-will  what- 
ever against  the  man,  and  I'll  be  his  friend  as  much  as 
anybody  when  he  comes  back." 

"  That's  all  right,  then ;  he'd  sooner  have  you  for  a 
friend  than  an  enemy,  be  sure." 


278  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  I  wanted  to  make  that  clear  first,  Audrey ;  I  wanted 
to  make  you  understand  Fm  a  real  good  friend  to  Snow 
henceforth,  and  don't  harbour  one  drop  of  bad  blood 
against  him.  You  understand  that?  Very  well;  and 
now  I  come  to  the  ticklish  thing.  And  'tis  for  love  of 
you  I  speak  it,  Audrey.  You'll  see  in  a  minute  that  what 
Fm  going  to  say  is  said  for  my  regard  for  you,  and  no 
other  reason.  In  a  word,  Audrey,  I  beg  you,  for  God's 
sake,  to  go  very  careful  and  cautious  in  your  dealings 
with  that  man.  Mind  you,  I'm  saying  nothing  against 
him,  and  I  hope  with  all  my  heart  I  never  shall  do; 
but  there's  a  great  mystery  brewing.  Fm  trained  as  a 
policeman  to  see  and  almost  feel  in  my  veins  when  all's 
right  and  all  isn't  right.  'Tis  a  sort  of  instinct  that 
men  in  my  business  get  after  a  time,  as  they  deepen  in 
knowledge  of  human  nature  and  human  weakness.  And 
I  tell  you,  without  one  particle  of  ill-feeling  to  Timothy 
Snow  —  I  tell  you  in  sorrow  —  that  you'll  do  well  to  hold 
off  a  little  while  from  the  man  until  you  see  how  things 
fall  out." 

"  Good  Lord !  what's  in  the  wind  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  There's  much  in  the  wind  always,"  he  answered. 
"  The  wind's  always  full  of  seeds  of  good  and  bad. 
There's  poison  in  the  wind,  and  there's  healing  in  the 
wind;  but  such  things  are  invisible,  and  none  can  tell 
what  breath  brought  them.  None  can  know  the  wind 
was  blowing  the  seeds  of  weeds  or  other  ills  till  they 
sprout  up  presently  and  show  themselves.  But  a  man 
like  me  can  smell  what's  in  the  wind  in  a  way  that  com- 
mon men  can  not.  And  it's  borne  in  upon  me,  much  to 
my  trouble  and  sorrow,  that  the  wind  that  blows  for 
Timothy  Snow  have  terrible  evils  hid  in  it." 

"  Whatever  are  you  saying  and  thinking  ?  " 

"  I'm  thinking  nothing.  I'm  keeping  away  from  my 
thoughts  day  and  night  —  dodging  'em  and  avoiding  'em. 
But  'tis  in  my  sleep  they  won't  be  put  off.  'Tis  in  my 
sleep  the  policeman  in  me  comes  out.  And  I  dream  ugly 
things,  Audrey,  and  when  I  wake  vip  the  dreams  won't 
be  laughed  away  as  dreams  mostly  can  be." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  279 

"  What  do  you  dream,  then  —  about  Timothy  ?  " 

"  Yes  —  about  him ;  but  what  I  dream,  none  will  ever 
know  —  not  even  you.  I  haven't  whispered  this  to  any- 
body else ;  and  I  shouldn't  have  whispered  it  to  you,  but 
for  the  deep  love  I  bear  to  you,  and  the  dread  I  feel 
that  you  may  go  and  make  some  terrible  mistake,  and 
wreck  your  life  or  some  such  thing." 

"  To  hear  you !  It's  like  the  mysterious  man  in  the 
play  we  went  to  see  at  Newton  Abbot.  You  don't 
mean  —  ? " 

"  I  don't  mean  anything  definite  at  all  —  nothing  you 
can  put  a  name  to  or  threaten  the  man  with  —  or  threaten 
me  with  for  saying.  That's  hid,  and  I  hope  it  will  be 
hid  for  ever,  and  thankful  to  God  I  shall  be  if  it  all 
happens  differently  from  what  I  fear.  Leave  it  so.  All 
there's  any  need  for  you  to  know  is  that,  in  my  opinion, 
there's  a  cloud  —  so  to  call  it  —  a  dark  cloud  hanging 
over  Timothy  Snow.  It  may  be  nothing  at  all ;  it  may 
clear  away  and  come  to  nought,  and  I  hope  it  will.  But 
in  the  meantime  I  ask  you,  as  your  faithful  friend,  and 
for  your  own  sake  —  for  your  own  sake,  Audrey  —  to 
keep  off  him,  and  go  easy  and  —  wait  and  watch  a  bit 
before  you  let  him  see  you're  friendly  still.  That's  all 
that  need  be  said." 

"  No,  it  isn't,"  she  answered.  "  Good  gracious  me  — 
I'm  a  woman,  I  believe  —  and  d'you  think  that's  going 
to  content  me?  And  such  friends  as  you  and  I  have 
been  always !  You've  got  to  tell  me  a  lot  more  than  that, 
Freddy." 

"  There's  no  more  to  tell,"  he  answered.  "  I'm  only 
warning  you  because  I  love  you  better  than  anything  else 
in  the  world,  and  because  I've  reason  to  fear  there  may 
be  trouble  waiting  for  Snow,  and  I  don't  want  you  to 
share  the  trouble." 

"  You've  got  a  secret,"  she  said,  "  and  you've  said  a 
great  deal  too  much  now  to  draw  back,  and  not  tell  me 
what  it  is." 

"  There's  nothing  to  tell,"  he  answered  again.  "  A 
suspicion   isn't   a   secret,   though    it   may   amount   to   a 


28o  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

certainty ;  and  my  suspicion  don't  amount  to  a  certainty. 
But  I've  got  to  put  two  and  two  together,  and  when  I 
do,  the  result,  so  far,  is  a  very  ugly  four.  Secret,  there's 
none.  Understand  that  I  only  say  this  much  because 
you  are  what  you  are  to  me,  and  I  don't  want  a  shadow 
over  you." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  she  said ;  "  and  I  very  much 
doubt  if  you  feel  as  friendly  to  the  man  as  you  say  you 
do.  If  you  do,  then  'tis  him  you  ought  to  be  warning  — 
not  me." 

She  did  not  guess  how  hard  a  thrust  this  was,  but  ran 
on  and  gave  him  time  to  recover  from  it  and  avoid  the 
necessity  of  answering. 

"  It  won't  do,  Freddy ;  I  know  you  a  lot  too  well. 
You've  got  to  tell  me  —  I'll  —  I'll  give  you  a  kiss  if  you 
will." 

"  No,"  he  answered,  glad  to  shift  the  centre  of  dis- 
cussion, "  I  don't  want  no  more  kisses  from  you,  Audrey. 
I  look  back  at  that  sort  of  silly  thing  and  regret  it." 

"  Thank  you !  " 

"  I  regret  it  because  my  point  of  view  has  changed. 
I'm  a  lot  more  serious-minded  than  I  was,  and  I  know 
very  well  it  wasn't  treating  you  properly  to  play  the  fool, 
and  let  you  pull  my  moustache  and  kiss  you,  and  all  that 
feeble  nonsense.  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart  and  soul, 
and  I  say  this:  I  ought  to  have  shown  you  that  I  hold 
love  to  be  a  great  and  solemn  thing  and  — " 

"  Have  done !  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  come  to  you  for 
preaching  —  I  get  that  from  somebody  else  who  means 
it.  You  don't.  You're  humbugging  me,  and  I  won't  let 
you,  you  silly  man !  " 

He  was  startled,  for  he  believed  that  he  meant  what 
he  said. 

"  I'm  telling  the  truth,"  he  declared. 

"  Then  you're  humbugging  yourself,"  she  answered. 
"  We've  been  very  good  friends,  and  you  know  more 
about  me  than  anybody  alive  —  a  long  sight  more  than 
I'd  ever  tell  any  man  I  meant  to  marry.  And  I  know 
you   inside  out,   too.     And    I   know   you've   got   some- 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  281 

thing  up  your  sleeve  against  Timothy  Snow.  And  you 
won't  tell  me  what  it  is,  but  think  to  use  it  as  a  weapon 
against  me,  or  him,  or  both." 

"  I  swear  there's  nothing  to  tell  —  only  a  growing  fear 
that  there  may  be  a  hard  row  for  him  to  hoe  when  he 
comes  home." 

"And  you're  going  to  set  him  to  it?  All  right. 
You've  warned  me,  and  I'll  warn  him.  And  now  chuck 
that,  and  talk  about  something  different,  for  I've  only 
got  ten  minutes.  Then  I  must  go  down  past  the  old 
mine  to  meet  —  Drusilla  Redstone.  I  promised  to  see 
her  this  evening." 

But  he  made  her  vow  faithfully  that  she  would  not 
speak  to  Snow  of  any  danger  until  he  saw  her  again. 
Then,  led  to  an  old  interest  by  mention  of  the  mine  and 
sight  thereof  rising  from  the  woods  beneath,  Audrey 
spoke  of  the  past.  She  did  not  for  an  instant  connect 
it  with  the  recent  conversation. 

"  I  always  feel  creepy  when  I  look  at  that  place.  I 
believe  if  anybody  went  there  by  night  he'd  see  the  ghost 
of  Lot  Snow.  Poor  old  wretch  —  he  was  always  good 
enough  to  me.  He'd  have  left  me  something  in  his  will, 
I  believe,  if  he'd  had  the  chance  to  make  one.  He'd 
have  cut  Timothy  out  of  it,  anyway.  I  wonder  a  clever 
chap  like  you  wasn't  able  to  find  him,  Freddy." 

Vanity  tempted  Moyle  to  hint  the  truth,  but  he  denied 
himself  for  the  present.     His  plans  loomed  clearer. 

"  Wait  —  the  last  word  isn't  spoken  on  that  subject. 
I've  a  sort  of  sure  feeling  that  I  shall  be  the  one  to  un- 
earth that  mystery  yet.  I'm  working  hard  enough,  and 
you'll  be  the  first  to  hear  about  it  when  the  time  comes." 

"  You've  never  told  anybody  about  that  hat  ?  " 

"  Not  a  soul.     But  it  may  mean  everything." 

"  It  shows  he  was  there,  anyway.  And,  since  it  fell 
there,  it  surely  shows  he  never  went  off.  He  wouldn't 
have  gone  and  left  it." 

"  That's  your  reasoning,  but  it  won't  do,  Audrey.  It 
don't  follow  because  a  man's  hat  is  found  in  a  place  that 
he  was  there  himself.     It  might  have  been  took  there  for 


282  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

private  reasons.  Again,  it  don't  show  that  he  never  left 
there,  even  if  he  ever  was  there.  He  might  have  been 
carried  away." 

"  Nobody  would  carry  him  far." 

"  There  are  strange  things  going  to  happen,"  he  said. 
"  I'm  not  superstitious,  or  any  foolery  of  that  sort,  but 
things  are  going  to  happen  soon  that  will  very  much 
surprise  everybody.  I'm  positive  of  that,  though  I 
couldn't  tell  you  why.  And  you'll  be  in  them  —  for 
good  or  evil." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously,  and  thought  of  her  own 
afifairs. 

"  You're  a  queer  chap  —  you've  got  the  second  sight, 
I  believe.  I  reckon  things  are  going  to  happen,  too  — 
afore  long.  When  I  see  Drusilla,  I'll  ask  her  if  her  hus- 
band will  look  out  for  Lot  Snow's  ghost  next  time  he 
passes  the  mine  by  night." 

"  Don't  you  make  fun  of  that  business,"  he  said  very 
earnestly.  "  If  you  do,  you'll  very  likely  live  to  be 
sorry  for  it.  Don't  mention  the  matter,  or  you  may  do 
a  great  deal  of  harm.  If  you  was  to  say  that,  you'd 
make  John  Redstone  wonder  what  you  meant ;  and  then 
he'd  go  poking  about  at  the  mine  and  talking,  and  very 
likely  end  by  upsetting  a  great  deal  of  time  and  thought 
that  I've  put  into  the  thing.  You've  promised  to  say 
nothing  for  the  present,  and  I  hold  you  to  that 
promise." 

"  All  right  —  you  can  trust  me,"  she  said.  "  I  want 
you  to  have  the  reward,  and  all  the  honour  of  the  dis- 
covery." 

"  You  do  now.  I'm  thinking  a  time  may  come  when 
you  won't.  But  we'll  leave  it  where  you  say  for  the 
minute." 

They  parted  presently,  and  Moyle  went  off  doubtful 
of  Audrey's  loyalty  and  distracted  by  his  affection  for 
her ;  while  she,  believing  that  he  knew  much  more  than 
he  had  told  her,  speculated  how  she  might  seduce  his 
secrets  from  him. 

Swiftly,  however,  she  dismissed  the  subject,  for  a  tryst 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  283 

with  another  man  awaited  her,  and  she  was  half  an  hour 
behind  the  promised  time. 

Not  to  Drusilla  did  Audrey  hasten  now,  but  to  a  dell 
in  the  hanging  woods  above  Yarner  House  —  a  place 
secreted  at  the  edge  of  the  trees  where  yawned  a  quarry. 
Thence  had  the  stone  been  cut  that  built  the  mansion, 
but  now  the  place  was  deserted  and  overgrown.  In  it 
were  hidden  nooks  and  overhung  crannies  secure  from 
observation  of  the  passer-by.  Here  she  came  to  find  one 
waiting  for  her.  He  was  a  year  younger  than  herself, 
the  only  son  of  a  soldier,  the  grandson  of  a  soldier,  and 
heir  presumptive  of  Yarner. 

Audrey  listened  to  him,  and  marked  young  Eustace 
Champernowne  in  the  dust  before  her,  stricken  to  his 
heart,  drowned  with  a  frenzied  passion  of  love.  She 
beheld  the  spectacle  with  profound  interest,  and  his  deep 
reverence  awoke  a  faint  shadow  of  awe  in  her  spirit. 
He  was  no  soldier.  His  eyes  and  high  brow  spoke  of 
intellect;  his  hand  was  an  artist's.  Simplicity  and  in- 
genuousness sat  upon  him.  He  quoted  poetry  that  he 
had  made  to  her.  Utmost  humility  characterised  his 
approach,  and  he  was  nervous  before  her  and  trembled. 
He  spoke  far  over  her  head,  and  dealt  in  a  finer  grain 
of  thought  than  she  could  appreciate.  She,  too,  was 
nervous,  for  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  escape  self -con- 
sciousness when  with  him.  He  might  have  tempted  her 
more  with  rougher  love-making ;  but  to  his  glorified  fancy 
she  was  a  sainted  piece  of  immaculate  loveliness  only  to 
be  approached  by  man  on  his  knees.  His  love  ennobled 
her,  and  of  late  she  had  begun  to  take  herself  more  seri- 
ously in  consequence.  He  was  clever,  and  had  distin- 
guished himself  at  Oxford.  He  had  explained  his  suc- 
cesses to  her,  and  she  doubted  them  not.  Her  shyness  al- 
ways wore  off  after  she  had  listened  to  him  for  a  while, 
and  it  did  so  now.  She  began  to  perceive  that  he  spoke 
truth  to  her,  and  was  in  deadly  earnest  about  the  thing 
he  desired  to  do.  Her  worldly  wisdom  doubted ;  her 
inclination  tempted  her.  Young  Champernowne's  father 
was  on  service  abroad,  and  his  mother  was  dead.     He 


284  THE  FOREST  UN  THE  HILL 

came  and  went  from  Yarner,  and  regarded  it  as  his  home. 

Audrey  hstened  to  his  pleading,  and  sat  on  a  mossy 
stone  while  he  stood  before  her  and  spoke.  He  had 
never  asked  or  offered  to  kiss  her ;  he  had  often  told  her 
that  she  was  a  sacred  thing  in  his  eyes ;  unconsciously 
he  had  stilled  her  levity  and  increased  her  sense  of  re- 
sponsibility before  his  passion.  Of  light-minded,  pleas- 
ure-seeking women  he  spoke  with  profound  contempt,  and 
Audrey  knew  that  but  for  the  sleight  of  love  he  would 
have  despised  her.  But  she  hid  herself  from  him  a  little, 
and  then,  in  secret,  she  modified  herself  a  little  that  she 
might  more  nearly  resemble  his  ideal.  She  was  not  in 
love,  and  while  admiring  his  cleverness  and  revelation  of 
a  manner  outside  her  experience,  yet  knew  very  well 
that  had  he  belonged  to  her  own  class,  she  must  have 
held  him  a  very  great  bore. 

This  attitude  was  becoming  modified,  however,  at  the 
present  stage  in  their  friendship.  Her  old  reckless 
theories  changed  as  her  experience  increased.  She  had 
intelligence  enough  to  perceive  that  such  virgin  love  as 
the  young  man  displayed  was  a  rare  and  splendid  mani- 
festation. She  knew  her  own  capabilities  also,  and  was 
aware  that  her  quickness  of  mind,  strength  of  intuition, 
and  sovereign  power  over  the  male  might,  in  another 
sphere  of  life,  help  her  to  the  achievements  that  her  lover 
prophesied  from  the  profound  depth  of  his  passion. 

She  listened  now,  laughed  sometimes,  shook  her  head 
sometimes,  studied  the  light  and  flash  of  his  face,  and 
marked  how  each  word  from  her  was  quick  to  echo  in 
his  countenance  its  message  of  hope  or  doubt.  Im- 
mensely experienced  in  the  outer  signs  of  love,  she  ob- 
served them  as  displayed  in  this  man  of  breeding,  and 
noted  where  they  differed  from  those  others  who  had 
loved  her,  and  where  they  corresponded.  It  piqued  her 
to  feel  his  love  was  a  finer  and  more  delicate  fire  than 
any  she  had  power  to  light  in  her  own  heart ;  and  then 
she  resented  the  opinion  and  took  courage,  and  told  her- 
self that  she  was  made  not  only  to  be  loved  nobly  but 
nobly  to  love.     She  assured  herself  that  she  could  love 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  285 

this  man  if  she  desired  to  do  so ;  and  that,  once  on  the 
wing,  her  passion  should  soar  as  high  as  his  own,  and 
amaze  him  by  its  splendour.  He  did  not  guess  at  her 
voluptuousness,  and  she  determined  that  it  should  be 
hidden  from  him.  She  tuned  herself  to  his  key  as  a 
matter  of  instinct.  She  chimed  with  all  men  thus :  it  was 
her  source  of  greatest  power.  She  knew  in  a  flash  how 
to  please,  and  practised  to  please  where  she  desired  to 
do  so.  Even  with  this  cultured  man  a  native  inspiration 
made  her  increase  his  love  daily.  LTnconsciously  she 
acted,  for  her  ruling  passion :  to  pleasure  all  men,  had 
not  as  yet  been  subdued  by  love  for  one. 

She  had  suffered  many  to  excite  her,  and  found  erotic 
pleasure  in  this  voice,  this  gaze,  this  gesture ;  but  it  was 
young  Champernowne's  hand  that  fascinated  her  most. 
With  any  other  man,  she  would  have  possessed  it  and 
ordered  it  to  stroke  her  cheek,  hold  her  waist,  or  curl 
its  long  fingers  into  her  hair ;  but  she  could  not  do  this 
with  him.  She  was  very  careful  not  to  make  any  mis- 
take, lift  a  corner  of  the  curtain  on  her  frank,  healthy 
animalism,  or  venture  any  overture  that  would  either  an- 
noy him  or  set  him  on  fire. 

He  discoursed  of  love  to  her,  and  told  her  his  opinions. 
He  startled  her  a  great  deal  by  his  values,  and  by  the 
weight  he  attached  to  things  that  she  had  held  of  no 
account.  To  him  a  kiss  was  a  mighty  matter ;  and  she, 
who  that  very  day  had  felt  a  hunger  to  kiss  his  hand,  was 
glad  that  she  had  not  done  so.  He  told  her  that  the  his- 
tory of  the  kiss  would  be  the  history  of  half  the  joy  and 
sorrow  in  the  world.  A  kiss  had  plunged  nations  into 
war ;  a  kiss  had  shed  rivers  of  blood ;  a  kiss  had  betrayed 
the  Saviour  of  the  Earth.  The  kiss  given,  said  he,  was 
but  a  ghost,  and  fit  only  for  the  sterile  limbo  of  futile 
things,  unless  returned.  But  when  four  lips  went  to  a 
kiss,  then  it  unsealed  the  heaven  of  heavens  and  lifted 
the  portals  of  the  sanctuary.  To-day  he  was  disturbed 
and  more  passionate  than  usual.  He  hungered  to  be 
nearer  her ;  his  self-control  shook.  She  knew  without 
words  from  him  that  he  had  to  struggle  with  himself  to 


286  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

keep  his  arms  from  enfolding  her,  and  she  was  glad.  He 
scarcely  looked  at  her,  but  stared  past  her  with  troubled 
eyes.  He  moved  his  hands  restlessly.  Some  emotion 
made  him  stretch  his  arms  and  yawn.  She  understood 
that,  because  she  had  seen  other  men  do  it. 

She  chose  to  shorten  the  interview  and  left  him  pres- 
ently ;  but  not  before  he  had  made  her  promise  to  meet 
him  in  the  same  place  three  days  later.  She  took  the 
rhyme  that  he  had  made  to  her  and  put  it  under  her  collar 
against  her  breast.  She  knew  that  it  would  please  him 
to  see  her  do  so ;  and  she  knew  that  he  stood  and  watched 
her  out  of  sight  when  she  left  him  and  climbed  away  up 
a  heathery  hill  behind  the  place  of  their  meeting. 


CHAPTER  V 

There  haunted  Drusilla  Redstone  a  spirit  that  prompted 
her  often  to  interfere  with  her  own  happiness,  and  while 
her  marriage  had  served  to  improve  her  mental  stamina, 
yet  it  could  not  dim  memory,  and  it  could  not  alter  char- 
acter. The  circumstances  that  had  separated  her  from 
Timothy  Snow  were  rendered  more  vivid  by  his  return, 
and  there  came  an  hour  when  she  could  keep  them  to 
herself  no  more.  To  tell  Timothy  was  idle  and  mis- 
chievous, in  her  opinion,  and  she  was  content  to  remain 
under  his  suspicion  in  the  matter.  He  must  think  her 
heartless  and  irrational  for  ever ;  and  that  she  could 
bear.  But  it  seemed  to  Drusilla  at  this  season  that  her 
husband  should  be  told.  She  had  indeed  wondered 
sometimes  why  he  never  mentioned  the  subject,  why, 
even  now  that  her  former  lover  had  returned  to  Eng- 
land, he  never  raised  the  question  of  what  led  Drusilla 
to  change  her  mind  concerning  him.  But  delicacy  or 
indifference  sealed  his  lips.  He  defined  his  own  future 
attitude  to  Snow,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  hope  that  Tim- 
othy would  prove  friendly;  but  he  never  so  much  as 
asked  his  wife  what  her  attitude  was  to  be.  It  sur- 
prised her  a  little  that  the  events  of  the  past  should  slip 
so  easily  and  swiftly  from  his  memory.  He  knew  that 
she  had  attempted  to  put  an  end  to  her  life,  and  could 
not  be  ignorant  that  Timothy  Snow  was  largely  the  cause 
of  the  action ;  but  now  he  merely  spoke  of  Snow's  return 
as  an  event  of  interest.  He  failed  to  see  that  it  could 
have  a  painful  side  for  his  wife ;  or,  if  indeed  he  guessed 
it,  the  suspicion  was  hidden.  Drusilla's  motives  for 
burrowing  back  into  the  past  at  this  juncture  were  mixed, 
and  her  own  peculiarities  of  character  fought  with  her 
judgment.     There  was  also  an  ingredient  of  small  pique 

287 


288  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

in  her  determination  —  an  element  of  stupidity.  Her 
whole  heart  and  soul  centred  on  John  Redstone  now. 
He  had  come  mightily  to  dominate  her  life  and  thought. 
She  lived  for  him;  but  she  was  jealous,  and  exacted  re- 
turn in  kind.  She  began  to  feel,  then,  that  his  attitude 
towards  that  great  event  of  the  past  was  imperfect,  and 
she  explained  to  herself  that  it  must  be  so,  because  his 
knowledge  w^as  imperfect.  She  determined  to  complete 
his  knowledge ;  and  on  a  night  when  they  had  gone  to 
bed  together,  she  spoke. 

They  often  talked  before  they  slept,  for  they  retired 
early  when  Redstone's  work  did  not  keep  him  in  the 
woods  by  night ;  and  day  always  began  for  them  at  this 
season  with  the  dawn. 

"  I  saw  Snow  this  morning,"  he  said.  "  I  didn't  tell 
you  afore,  but  kept  the  news  for  a  titbit.  Looking  fine, 
and  just  a  something  about  him  different,  that  his  change 
of  luck  was  sure  to  bring." 

"  Perhaps  it  wasn't  that,"  she  said. 

"  Perhaps  not.  He  was  civil,  but  stand-offish ;  or  may- 
be, owing  to  my  way  of  forgetting  the  past  so  quick,  I 
took  it  for  granted  that  he'd  do  the  same.  But  'tis 
easier  to  forget  victory  than  defeat,  and  no  doubt  seeing 
me  reminded  him  pretty  sharply  of  you,  and  how  things 
were  once  between  you.  God  knows,  when  I  come  to 
look  back,  I  felt  sorry  for  him,  for  I  know  what  he  lost 

—  better  than  he  knows  himself  I  know  what  he  lost. 
He's  only  a  man,  and  I  can't  expect  him  to  be  just  the 
same  to  me  as  he  was  when  he  thought  he  w-as  going 
to  marry  you ;  I  see  that  very  clear.  I  must  be  patient  — 
that's  the  least  I  can  be  wnth  the  poor  chap.  He'd  gladly 
give  his  cash  for  what  it  won't  buy,  no  doubt  —  like  lots 
of  people.  However,  'tis  too  late  now,  and  he's  had 
plenty  of  time  to  get  over  it.  You  had  your  reasons 
for  what  you've  done,  and  you  were  right.  No  matter 
for  all  his  money  and  brains  and  good  looks  and  power 

—  you  were  right ;  because  you  know  by  now  that  you'd 
never  have  been  so  happy  with  any  other  man  on  earth 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  289 

but  me.  Say  you  know  it;  say  you  know  it,  Dru !  I'm 
never  weary  of  liearing  you  say  it." 

"  And  I'm  never  weary  of  saying  it,"  she  answered. 
"  Never,  never  in  my  happiest,  hopefulest  moment  did 
I  guess  I  could  be  such  a  joyful  creature  as  I  am  along 
with  you,  or  find  life  so  precious  —  every  moment  of  it. 
But—" 

"  What  do  you  want  to  drag  in  a  '  but '  for  ?  " 

'*  Johnny,"  she  said,  "  did  you  ever  wonder  why  I 
changed  my  mind  about  Mr.  Snow  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did.  I  just  wondered,  and  then  let  the 
thing  slide.  I  was  never  much  of  a  one  for  asking  peo- 
ple why  they  did  things  —  reasons  and  motives  and  such 
like.  You  changed  your  mind  because  you  reckoned 
he  wasn't  the  husband  for  you,  and  you  had  the  quick 
wit  to  see  'twas  better  to  make  him  miserable  for  a  time 
than  for  ever.  You  was  strong  enough  to  chuck  him, 
because  nature  rose  high  in  you,  and  you  couldn't  abide 
to  see  all  your  life  gone  wrong,  and  his  also.  And  so 
you  did  what  must  have  been  a  terrible  hard  thing  for 
a  shy,  tender  toad  like  you  to  do,  and  got  clear.  And 
such  was  the  strain  to  have  to  do  it,  that  for  a  bit  you 
went  out  of  your  blessed  mind  altogether,  and  felt  life 
was  no  good  and  had  better  be  shuffled  off.  That's  how 
I  read  it ;  and  then  the  bestest  luck  that  ever  happened 
to  me  did  happen,  and  I  got  you  back  to  life  by  the  skin 
of  your  teeth.  And  after  you  began  to  live  again  — 
slowly,  slowly  —  you  came  to  feel  that  I  was  the  mate 
for  you :  and  here  we  are  —  one.  That's  enough  for 
me:  and  if  I  died  to-morrow  I  should  have  had  more 
than  my  share  of  luck  —  to  have  had  you  —  to  have  had 
you  for  my  own  for  weeks  and  weeks.  And  I  hope  to 
God  'twill  be  for  years  and  years." 

She  hesitated  to  speak  before  this  ardent  answer,  but 
her  instinct  was  set  on  telling  him  the  truth,  whatever 
the  consequences  might  be.  She  felt  that  to  do  so  was  a 
vain  thing,  that  it  could  but  give  him  sorrow  and  cer- 
tainly yield  her  no  joy;  but  her  obstinate  familiar  pos- 
19 


290  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

sessed  her.  She  spoke  quietly  and  told  him  that  his 
theory  was  mistaken. 

"  You'll  guess  that  I  wouldn't  say  this  if  I  wasn't  sure 
of  myself  and  you.  A  wonderful  tangle  happened  in  the 
past,  Johnny  —  put  your  arm  round  me  again  —  a  tangle 
far  more  strange  and  dreadful  than  you  think  for. 
You've  explained  it  like  your  own  simple,  clear-seeing 
self ;  but  'twasn't  so.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  strip 
it  all  bare  again,  and  yet  something  in  me  stronger  than 
common-sense  cries  out  to  me  to  do  it." 

*'  If  'twas  worth  telling,  why  didn't  you  tell  it  sooner?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "  And  yet  I  do  know. 
If  I'd  told  you  before  —  you  —  you  wouldn't  have  loved 
me  any  more,  I  reckon." 

He  was  interested. 

"  Good  God !  That's  a  strong  thing  to  say.  What 
are  you  dreaming  about  ?  " 

Then  she  told  him  the  truth,  and  explained  how  Lot 
Snow  had  urged  her  to  throw  over  his  nephew  for 
Timothy's  own  ultimate  welfare ;  how  she  had  done  so 
at  cost  of  her  own  desire  to  live. 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  how  terribly  and  strangely  it 
worked  out.  When  you  killed  that  old  man,  in  a  sudden 
righteous  rage  at  his  hateful  ways,  you  swept  away  the 
thing  that  stood  between  me  and  Timothy  Snow.  But 
it  was  too  late  then.  After  I  gave  him  up  and  wouldn't 
tell  him  why,  he  raged  against  me,  and  said  words  that 
can  never  be  unsaid,  and  thought  thoughts  that  can  never 
be  unthought.  The  end  was  the  same,  and  I  was  parted 
from  him  for  ever  really,  though  for  a  time  I  fancied  we 
might  come  together  again.  I'm  hiding  nothing  —  not 
even  my  dreams  —  a  distraught  woman's  dreams  though 
they  were.     But  there's  the  truth." 

Redstone  was  perturbed. 

"  Women  —  good  powers  —  you're  creepy  things !  "  he 
said.  "  But  you  can't  stop  there.  If  'twas  like  that  with 
you,  how  is  it  you're  my  wife  now  ?  " 

"  Because    I    changed,"    she   answered.     "  I'm    telling 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  291 

you  nothing  but  truth,  and  if  it  changes  you,  John,  so 
much  the  worse  for  me.  1  shan't  be  the  first  to  get  bitter 
payment  for  truth-telhng.  I  changed.  When  1  grew 
better  my  first  wish  and  purpose  w-as  to  tell  you  the  real 
reason  why  I  tried  to  do  what  I  did.  And  then  —  oh, 
such  thousands  of  years  stretched  between  me  and  the 
past,  that  I  asked  myself  whether  there  was  any  need  to 
go  back  so  far." 

"  More  need  then  than  now,  I  should  reckon." 

"  I  suppose  there  was.  But  I  came  over  cowardly 
about  it,  and  —  and  —  I  got  to  feel  I  owed  you  such  a 
lot—" 

"  Don't !  "  he  cried  out.  "  Damn  it  all  —  don't  put  it 
like  that !  Was  I  a  man  to  claim  any  fancied  debt  ?  Did 
I  ever  dream  to  myself,  or  hint  to  you,  or  any  living 
creature  that  you  was  under  a  debt  to  me?  I  saved 
your  life  —  what  was  that?  No  more  than  a  dog  jump- 
ing in  the  water  to  drag  a  child  ashore.  'Twas  just  a 
human  instinct,  and  no  more  to  my  credit  than  to  knock 
that  rogue  on  the  head  was  to  my  shame.  You  can't 
say  I  thought  you  owed  me  anything ;  you  can't  say  I 
acted  as  if  you  owed  me  anything.  Love  you  —  yes  — 
love  you  with  every  drop  of  blood  in  my  veins  —  that  I 
did  do.  But  I  never  hinted,  and  I  never  thought  that 
I  had  the  right  to  expect  you  to  love  me.  This  is  a 
black  night's  work  for  me,  and  I'm  sick  and  angered 
about  it.  Say  more  —  say  more  to  me,  Dru ;  I  can't 
sleep  on  this." 

"  I  want  to  say  more,"  she  declared.  "  I  must  say 
more.  You  interrupted  me  —  natural  enough  you 
should.  Can't  you  see  why  I  kept  my  mouth  shut  against 
my  conscience?  O  Johnny  darling,  there  was  a  very 
good  reason.  I'm  not  clever  at  words,  but  you  must 
take  the  will  for  the  deed,  and  try  and  understand.  I  did 
owe  you  a  lot,  but  I  never  grudged  the  debt,  and  I'd  not 
have  married  you  for  gratitude  —  never.  I  wouldn't 
have  done  that  wrong.  But  I  got  to  know  you  so  well, 
all  those  long  months,  and  got  to  see  what  you  were  and 
—  then  —  then  I  knew  if  I  told  you  what  I've  told  you 


292  THE  FORES  r  ON'  THE  HILL 

lo-iiiglit,  Johnny,  you'd  have  wanted  me  no  more  —  and 

—  and  1  began  to  want  you  by  that  time.      I  began  slowly 

—  half  frightened  —  doubtful  whether  'twas  right  or 
proper.  I'd  loved  the  other  man.  You  know  that.  I'd 
loved  him  well,  and  he'd  filled  my  life;  but  afterwards 

—  he  was  gone.  I  swear  to  you  that  he  seemed  to  be- 
long to  another  life  and  another  woman,  for  I  never 
could  feel  —  and  I  don't  now  —  that  her  that  tried  to 
starve  herself  in  Yarner  was  me.  It's  all  beyond  any 
words  of  mine,  but  not  beyond  the  nature  of  women.  I 
was  changed  away  from  what  I  had  been,  and  millions  of 
years  seemed  to  have  passed  between  me  and  Timothy. 
And  I  wouldn't  tell  you,  Johnny  dearest,  because  if  I 
had,  you'd  have  felt  you  must  stop  living  with  me;  and 
there  was  that  in  me  half  wanted  you,  then ;  and  every 
hour  from  the  time  I  promised  to  marry  you  I  loved 
you  hotter,  and  thanked  God  better  that  you  loved  me." 

"  'Tis  damned  difficult,"  he  answered  gloomily.  "  I'm 
puzzled  for  the  minute.  But  what  matters  is  that  we 
are  to  each  other  as  we  are." 

"  And  that's  all  that  matters." 

"  Yes,  it  is.  Come  to  think  of  it,  you've  put  a  weight 
on  me  and  taken  it  off  again.  You  loved  me  doubtfully 
and  took  me  —  half  for  love,  half  for  payment.     But  then 

—  then  you  got  to  know  me  better,  and  found  how  proper 
it  was  and  how  natural  and  seemly  it  was  we  should  be 
together  every  way,  and  felt  you  wouldn't  change  for 
anything  on  earth.     Be  that  right  ?  " 

"  Dead  true,  and  better  said  than  I  could  say  it,"  she 
answered.  "  You  loved  me  grander  than  I  loved  you ; 
but  time's  ahead  of  us,  and  I'll  catch  you  up  yet,  and 
love  you  as  grand  as  you  deserve  to  be  loved.  I  do  it 
now  —  I  do  it  now,  for  you're  my  life,  and  I  hang  on 
you  for  every  joy  and  passion  and  delight,  and  waking 
every  morning  I  wonder  to  think  that  such  a  man  lives, 
and  lives  for  me." 

He  embraced  her,  and  rubbed  his  face  against  hers, 
"  That's  all  right,  then,"  he  said.     "  I  don't  see  there's 
anything  to  make  a  fuss  about.     Come  to  think  of  it, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  293 

there  was  no  reason  on  earth  why  you  should  have  told 
me  how  it  was.  If  you  didn't  love  him  no  more  when 
you  promised  to  marry  me,  I've  got  no  reason  to  grum- 
ble." 

"  I  didn't,"  she  said. 

"  Then  'twas  just  damned  bad  luck  for  him.  And, 
after  all,  if  I  took  you  away,  I  gave  him  something  in 
exchange.  A  poor  exchange,  yet  something  to  a  man 
like  him.  And  now  he's  got  to  be  considered.  I'm 
jealous  for  your  credit  in  that  quarter.  I  don't  want 
him  or  any  other  person  to  think  that  you  jilted  him 
for  wantonness.     I  w'on't  have  that  against  you." 

"  What  does  it  matter  ?  " 

"  You  ask  that !  But  you're  a  woman  and  can't  see 
like  a  man,  of  course.  No,  I  won't  have  that  against 
you.  I've  heard  the  truth,  and  Tim  Snow's  going  to  hear 
the  truth ;  and  you're  going  to  tell  him.  You're  going 
to  that  man  to  tell  him  the  sacrifice  you  made  for  him, 
and  why  you  gave  him  up,  yet  wouldn't  explain.  And, 
as  to  the  reward  you  got  for  making  that  sacrifice  —  in 
the  shape  of  the  man  who  loved  you  as  well  as  Snow 
did,  and  was  made  for  you,  and  be  yours  for  ever  and 
ever  —  well,  you  can  say  as  much  or  as  little  to  the  chap 
about  me  as  you  please.  It  shall  be  all  above  board 
and  straight,  anyhow ;  and  I  know  you  think  the 
same." 

Of  course  Drusilla  had  not  thought  of  any  such  thing, 
but  she  did  not  say  no.  For  a  moment  or  two  she  was 
silent ;  then,  realising  that  her  husband  expected  an 
answer,  she  dissembled. 

"  You're  right  —  as  you  always  are,"  she  said. 
"  There's  no  reason  why  Timothy  shouldn't  know  what 
happened.     I  owe  that  to  you." 

"  You  do,"  he  answered,  "  though  it  don't  matter  a 
damn  about  me.  You  owe  it  to  him  before  me,  and  to 
yourself  as  well.  He  shan't  go  on  living  and  thinking 
ill  of  my  wife.  'Tisn't  fair  to  him  or  you.  You  must 
tell  him  how  it  all  was  for  right  and  justice.  I  trust  you 
to  do  it." 


294  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  So  I  will,  then,"  she  said.  "  and  I'm  the  happier  for 
having  told  you  this.  'Twas  the  last  cloud  left  in  my 
sky." 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  dead  brake  fern  spread  out  from  a  little  copse,  and 
its  amber  oozed  away  like  liquid  into  the  heath  and 
vanished  there.  But  above  the  brown,  there  stood  an 
ancient  white-thorn  ablaze  with  ripe  fruit.  Crimson  and 
lustrous  they  spattered  the  branches  and  flamed  against 
the  lichen-clad  twigs  with  radiance  under  the  morning 
sun.  Higher  yet  ascended  a  great  fir,  that  flung  her 
boughs  out  of  the  spinney-side  and  lifted  a  sun-soaked 
mass  of  glaucous  blue  against  the  paler  azure  of  the  sky. 
In  the  midst,  where  golden  light  found  the  heart  of  the 
tree,  sat  a  wood-pigeon,  like  a  jewel.  It  flashed,  hurtling 
away  at  approach  of  man,  and  Timothy  Snow  stood 
under  the  harvest  of  the  hawthorn  and  looked  down 
upon  Yarner. 

He  had  been  at  home  for  a  fortnight,  and  had  worked 
hard  during  that  time  in  the  examination  and  adjust- 
ment of  his  uncle's  affairs.  Some  subtlety  was  needed 
for  his  intercourse  with  business  men  upon  this  subject, 
because  the  law  required  the  assumption  that  Lot  Snow 
was  not  dead,  while  his  nephew,  knowing  that  he  was, 
found  himself  again  and  again  desirous  to  proceed  upon 
the  strength  of  that  knowledge.  He  had,  however, 
schooled  himself  to  the  outlook,  and  in  practice  it  mat- 
tered little,  since  there  was  none  to  question  his  right 
to  proceed  as  he  pleased,  and  his  aunt,  Sibella  Snow, 
gladly  left  all  her  interests  in  his  hands. 

He  came  now  to  Yarner  without  a  special  reason,  and 
sat  a  while  here,  at  the  highest  point  of  the  forest,  before 
continuing  his  way.  He  was  merely  taking  exercise, 
and  might  have  remained  unobserved  under  the  knoll  in 
the  heath  for  as  long  as  he  pleased.  But  like  a  wound 
in  the  distant  woods  stood  the  grey  tower  of  the  mine, 

295 


296  THE  I'OREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  its  significance  disturbed  him  and  made  him  rise. 
He  determined  to  descend  to  his  old  home,  now  inhabited 
by  the  Redstones,  and  call  upon  Drusilla.  The  time 
was  come  for  doing  so,  and  he  felt  equal  to  it.  John 
would  be  from  home,  and  it  mattered  nothing  if  he  were 
not.  Timothy  had  heard  all  the  circumstances  of  Dru- 
silla's  marriage  from  his  aunt  —  as  she  understood  them 
—  and  now  imagined  that  Sibella's  delay,  to  which  he 
first  attributed  his  loss,  was  not  really  the  cause  of  it. 
His  transitory  hope,  that  Lot  Snow  had  separated  them, 
and  that  time  would  bring  them  together  again,  perished 
when  he  heard  that  the  woman  was  betrothed  to  another. 
He  explained  the  tragedy  differently  now,  and  felt  that 
since  Drusilla  had  left  him  of  her  free  will,  because  she 
found  that  another  man  suited  her  better,  there  was  no 
more  to  be  said,  and  he  must  face  his  loss,  and  face  her 
with  equal  self-control.  Now  the  ordeal  came  upon  him 
suddenly,  for  at  the  confines  of  Yarner  he  met  John  and 
Drusilla  walking  together.  The  man  he  had  spoken 
with  already;  the  woman  he  had  not  yet  met  since  his 
return  home. 

Redstone  greeted  Snow  with  friendship. 

"  Come  to  mark  if  I'm  doing  my  work  proper,  I  lay ! " 
he  said ;  "  or  else  come  to  find  if  Kingdon  and  me  be 
profiting  by  what  you  did  yourself.  My  wife  be  very 
wishful  to  see  you.  Snow,  and  I'd  like  to  think  you  was 
here  to  see  her.  I  don't  want  no  cloud  from  the  past 
to  hang  over  your  future,  nor  yet  mine  and  hers.  But 
clouds  will  rise  over  life  if  we  ban't  quick  to  catch  the 
first  shadow,  and  blow  'em  away  afore  'tis  too  late." 

"  I  was  coming  to  see  Drusilla,"  said  the  other.  "  I'm 
with  you ;  there's  nothing  like  taking  a  doubt  by  the 
throat  and  strangling  it  —  if  you're  strong  enough.  You 
know  me  for  a  straight  man,  and  no  enemy  to  you  now, 
whatever  I  may  have  been  when  I  heard  you  had  won 
your  wife.  But  'tis  lucky,  in  a  peculiar  case  like  this, 
that  you  feel  like  that,  and  I  hope  she  does  the 
same." 

''  She  does,"  said  Redstone ;  "  and  she  wants  to  speak 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  297 

to  you,  and  I  want  her  to.  Then  you  can  take  us  or 
leave  us.'' 

Drusilla  had  not  spoken  when  she  shook  Timothy's 
hand,  and  she  did  not  speak  now  but  let  her  husband 
voice  her. 

To  Snow  the  interview  appeared  altogether  unreal. 
To  find  himself  now  beside  Drusilla  in  Yarner  was  real 
enough ;  but  to  hear  another  man,  and  that  man  her  hus- 
band, speaking  to  him  for  her,  created  a  sense  of  vision. 
The  past,  that  had  seemed  so  terrifically  alive,  receded 
behind  a  veil  while  he  looked  into  the  woman's  face,  and 
saw  it  much  as  his  picture  of  it  had  always  been.  The 
flood  of  experiences  that  had  swept  over  him  seemed 
to  grow^  thin ;  he  felt  as  though  emerging  from  them 
back  to  light  and  air  and  reality  once  more.  He  felt  as 
though  the  sound  of  her  voice  would  restore  life  to  its 
former  levels,  bring  back  yesterday,  waken  him  from 
his  dream. 

"  I'll  go  about  my  business,  and  leave  you  two  to  talk," 
said  Redstone.  "  I've  wanted  this  to  happen,  and  should 
have  planned  it.  But  now  it's  planned  itself,  and  if, 
come  presently,  you  can  find  yourself  in  a  mood  to  eat 
with  us  at  home,  where  we  live  in  your  old  house,  then 
I  hope  you'll  do  so.  And  if  'twill  hurt  you  to  talk  to  her, 
I'm  sorry, "  he  added.  "  And  if  'twill  hurt  her  to  talk 
to  you,  I'm  sorrier  still.  But  'tis  the  right  thing  to 
leave  no  doubtful  matters  between  you.  There's  that, 
for  her  own  credit,  I've  axed  Drusilla  to  tell  you.  Snow; 
and  you're  too  good  and  just  a  man  to  refuse  to  listen." 

"  I  hope  so,"  answered  Timothy.  "  I  should  very 
much  like  to  talk  with  you,  Drusilla." 

"  So  be  it,  then ;  and  if,  as  I  say,  you'll  come  and  eat 
with  us  at  noon,  we  shall  both  be  glad  of  it,"  declared 
John.  Then  he  shouldered  his  gun  and  went  his  way, 
and  left  the  others  alone  together. 

Drusilla's  heart  was  beating  painfully,  and  she  found 
her  tongue  unsteady ;  for  this  interview,  albeit  she  knew 
that  it  had  to  take  place,  was  now  thrust  so  suddenly  upon 
her  that  she  found  herself  frightened  and  nervous.     Even 


298  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

as  Timothy  had,  she  felt  the  famihar  experience  of  be- 
ing with  him  in  Yarner  as  a  scrap  of  reahty  looming 
through  mighty  unrealities,  as  a  glimpse  of  clear  sky 
through  the  welter  of  clouds ;  but  there  was  a  vast  differ- 
ence between  their  regard  of  this  meeting;  because  time 
had  drawn  her  little  barque  of  life  into  harbour ;  she 
was  content  after  the  storms,  and  found  herself  daily 
a  happier  woman ;  while  he  had  entered  no  harbour,  and 
as  yet  his  new  significance  and  additions  had  not  sufficed 
to  take  the  place  of  the  mightier  experience  that  went 
before  them.  He  was  only  conscious  now  that  he  had 
returned  to  the  most  precious  thing  the  world  had  ever 
revealed  to  him,  and  when  she  spoke,  Drusilla's  voice 
liberated  a  myriad  memories,  came  like  the  sudden  rush 
of  a  stimulant  upon  a  depressed  mind,  unsteadied  his 
thinking  and  intoxicated  his  intellect.  It  was  only  by 
steadily  keeping  in  view  her  action  in  leaving  him,  its 
deliberation  of  purpose  and  accomplishment  of  end  in 
marriage  with  another  man,  that  he  found  himself  able 
to  preserve  self-control  before  her.  Nevertheless  she 
was  there  to  explain  these  very  things,  and  so  unsettle 
the  only  conviction  that  enabled  him  to  face  her  calmly. 

They  walked  together,  and  he,  perceiving  her  emotion, 
spoke  first  of  himself  and  his  affairs,  his  intentions  and 
ambitions. 

"  I'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again,  Drusilla,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  hope  you'll  let  me  call  you  that.  I  left  you  in 
passion  because,  you  see,  all  that  made  life  worth  living 
for  me  was  taken  away  when  you  took  yourself  away, 
and  I  couldn't  lose  it  without  a  fight.  You  know  my 
creed  —  how  I've  told  you  always  we  must  fight  for  our 
own  hand,  and  be  a  bit  selfish,  and  keep  our  own  point 
of  view  sharp,  and  not  let  rubbing  too  much  against 
other  people's  points  of  view  blunt  it,  and  all  that.  So 
you  know  I  had  to  fight,  and  you  know  that  to  a  proud 
man  like  me  'tis  bitter  to  lose  —  to  lose  anything,  how- 
ever small,  if  you  think  you're  strong  enough  to  hold  it. 
And  when  I  found  I  wasn't  strong  enough  to  hold  you, 
I  proved  weak  all  round,  and  sank  from  my  better  self 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  299 

and  raved  and  stormed  like  a  lunatic  and  did  many  mad 
things.     And  for  all  that  I'm  sorry." 

The  calm,  level  flow  of  his  voice  with  its  unimpassioned 
cadence  —  a  voice  that  had  always  seemed  to  her  the 
indifferent  spirit  of  Yarner's  self  —  fell  upon  her  listen- 
ing ears  and  steadied  her.  But  the  things  he  said  in- 
creased her  difficulties.  She  knew  what  John  Redstone 
desired  her  to  tell  Timothy :  it  had  to  be  done.  But  she 
temporised,  and  hoped  that  if  they  spoke  together  for  a 
while  longer  an  easier  opportunity  would  arise. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do?  For  many  things  'tis 
well  that  you  should  stand  free  before  this  new  life," 
she  said. 

"  I'll  come  to  that.  First  I  want  to  know  you  have 
forgiven  and  forgotten  all  that  I  spoke  when  we  parted." 

"  All,"  she  said.  "  And  none  can  ever  blame  you  for 
feeling  as  you  did,  and  I  least  of  all.  And  I  never  did 
and  never  shall." 

"  They  tell  me  strange  things  about  what  happened  to 
you.  You  wandered  here  all  alone,  like  a  babe  in  the 
wood,  and  might  have  died.     But  I  thought  — " 

"  Leave  me  for  the  present.  Let's  talk  about  you  and 
what  you're  going  to  do.  You'll  have  power,  they  tell 
me.  And  none  better  to  have  it  than  you  —  or  like  to 
use  it  wiser." 

"  Who  can  say  ?  'Tis  easy  to  think,  as  often  I  did, 
what  I'd  do  if  I  had  power.  Now  I've  got  it  the  thing 
looks  different.  To  begin  with,  there's  such  a  lot  of 
little  mean  needs  go  with  it.  A  poor  man's  compensa- 
tions are  real  enough,  though  they'll  never  grant  them. 
Now  I've  got  to  see  that  people  don't  rob  me,  and  I've  got 
to  make  all  sure,  and  I've  got  to  be  interested  in  politics, 
for  my  pocket's  sake,  and  a  lot  of  trash  like  that.  And 
to  work  at  keeping  together  what  another  man  earned  is 
mean,  and  I  hate  the  thought ;  and  to  fatten  on  another's 
savings  is  mean  too.  I'll  squander  some  to  relieve  my 
soul  presently.  My  state's  all  chaos  for  the  minute. 
How  different  it  would  have  been  if  you'd  found  your- 
self able  to  stick  to  me !     Then  you'd  — " 


30O  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  List  to  me  now,"  she  said.  "  I'm  going  to  tell  you 
what  I  told  my  husband  not  long  since,  and  he  bade  me 
tell  you.  He's  very  wishful  to  be  your  friend,  for  he 
thinks  a  lot  of  you  and  your  wisdom ;  and  when  I  told 
him  how  'twas  between  us  in  the  past,  and  why  for  I 
threw  you  over,  nothing  would  do  but  that  I  told  you  also. 
Let  me  be  bitter  clear,  Timothy.  If  I  doubted  myself  I 
couldn't  say  what  I'm  going  to,  and  I  wouldn't  come  be- 
fore you  and  walk  with  you  in  this  place.  But  the  past  is 
past  for  me,  and  I  can't  find  words  to  say  how  far  past. 
It's  thousands  of  years  in  my  count  since  I  loved  you  and 
you  loved  me.  And  it  was  a  good  and  beautiful  thing. 
But  I  had  to  stop  —  there  was  no  choice  for  me.  I  had 
to  say  I  w^ouldn't  wed  you ;  and  then  through  very  dark 
ways  I  went,  and  I  suffered  a  great  deal,  and  at  last  I 
came  out  of  the  shadow  into  light  again." 

"  So  long  as  you  came  out  into  the  light.  .  .  ." 

"  I  did.  I'm  a  happy  woman  now.  'Tis  no  slight  on 
you  to  say  it.  I'm  a  happy  wife,  with  far  more  happi- 
ness than  I  deserved  or  expected.  But  that's  neither 
here  nor  there.  I  must  go  back  now.  My  husband 
ordered  it,  and  he  said  I  owed  it  as  much  to  you  as  to 
myself  to  let  you  know  why  it  was  that  I  changed  my 
mind  and  wouldn't  marry  you." 

"  He  ordered  it  —  Redstone?  " 

"  He  did.  He's  a  terrible  fair  man,  with  a  great  feel- 
ing for  justice.  He  ordered  me  to  tell  you  —  to  clear  my 
character  in  your  eyes." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  care  to  tell  me  —  as  much  or  as 
little,  it's  all  one  now.  You're  happy  —  that's  what 
matters," 

She  explained  fully  and  w-ith  extreme  clarity  the  rea- 
sons that  had  made  her  break  with  Snow.  She  detailed 
the  misery  that  followed,  and  confessed  her  purpose  of 
self-destruction  for  love  of  him.  The  sequel  she  also 
described  at  length :  her  salvation  in  the  ruin,  her  life  at 
Dury,  her  sense  of  the  abyss  of  time  that  stretched  be- 
tween. When  she  told  him  how  she  had  accepted  Red- 
stone, he  was  moved  to  ask  whether  she  had  heard  news 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  301 

of  him  from  his  aunt  before  the  final  step  was  taken ; 
but  he  felt  that  would  not  be  a  fair  question,  and  did  not 
put  it.  She  made  it  clear  that  she  had  honestly  ceased  to 
love  Timothy  before  she  accepted  John.  She  could  give 
no  explanation  of  the  fact,  but  only  related  it.  He  asked 
her  to  pause  there  while  he  reflected. 

"  I  can't  understand  that,"  he  said,  preserving  a  calm.- 
ness  equal  to  her  own.  "  'Twould  have  been  natural  if 
my  love  for  you  had  waned,  since  you  threw  me  over 
without  a  cause ;  and  for  a  time  it  did  wane.  I'll  be 
as  frank  as  you.  For  a  time,  since  the  only  possible  ex- 
planation in  my  mind  was  that  you'd  found  a  man  you 
liked  better,  I  loved  you  less.  But  then  —  just  on  the 
very  eve  of  my  going  away  —  it  came  to  my  ears  that 
Lot  Snow  had  separated  you  from  me.  Yes,  I  heard 
what  you've  just  told  me  —  from  my  uncle  himself.  I 
was  the  last  man  he  spoke  with,  so  far  as  we  knew,  be- 
fore he  disappeared,  and  that  is  what  he  told  me.  Then 
huge  hope  woke,  and  I  left  directions  with  Aunt  Sibella 
as  to  what  she  should  do  when  you  was  found.  Little 
I  guessed  —  little  I  guessed  how  near  I  must  have  been 
to  finding  you  myself !  That's  ended.  You  gradually 
got  to  love  me  no  more.  For  why  ?  That's  the  interest- 
ing thing.  You  loved  me  so  well  that  you  could  give  me 
up  for  the  sake  of  my  own  good ;  and  then,  when  all  was 
changed  and  the  way  was  clear  and  nothing  on  God's 
earth  stood  between  us,  you  changed  in  earnest  and  took 
another." 

"  'Tis  so  —  I  can't  say  anything  about  it ;  it  happened 
like  that.  I  often  thought  of  you,  but  I  felt  pretty  sure 
Pd  done  what  I  meant  to  do  and  killed  any  love  you 
might  once  have  felt  for  me.  How  could  it  live  over 
what  I  did?  I  heard  nothing  neither.  No  word  came 
from  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  another  thing  —  for  John's 
credit.  He  never  knew  all  this  till  after  we  were  mar- 
ried. H  he'd  known  the  reason  why  Fd  thrown  you 
over,  he'd  not  have  ofifered  for  me  till  Fd  met  you  again 
and  told  you  tlie  truth.  He  said  so  himself  when  I  did 
tell  him." 


302  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  My  God !  What  little  things  decide  big  ones.  I  see 
now  how  dead  it  was  —  your  love  for  me.  A  word  to 
him  would  have  shut  his  mouth  and  left  you  free  till  I 
came  home,  but  you  didn't  speak  it." 

"  No.  I  was  ill  for  a  long  time,  and  hated  coming  back 
to  life.  Then,  very  slowly,  I  began  to  find  life  worth 
living  again.  And  'twas  John  that  made  it  so.  'Twas 
John  that  had  done  all  and  saved  my  life  for  me.  I 
seemed  to  belong  to  him  in  a  sort  of  way.  I'd  got  to 
feel  in  debt  and  I'd  got  to  care  for  him  a  lot,  too — I 
won't  deny  that.  I  didn't  want  to  marry  him  particu- 
larl}^  but  there  was  no  other  way  of  showing  him  how  I 
valued  him  and  his  goodness.  And  I  did  marry  him  — 
willingly  —  happily.  And  now  I've  got  to  love  the  ground 
he  walks  on,  to  believe  that  him  and  me  were  planned 
for  each  other ;  because  not  a  living  man  —  not  you,  Tim- 
othy —  could  have  been  to  my  wretched,  feeble  character 
just  what  he  is.  You  mustn't  think  this  cruel,  or  if  so, 
then  try  to  see  'tis  kind  cruelty.  For  John's  right  when 
he  said  it  was  better  far  to  have  everything  clear  and 
straight  among  us  three." 

He  nodded.  Her  voice  was  good  to  him.  Her  inflec- 
tions, pauses,  and  her  trick  of  saying  a  few  words  very 
slowly  and  then  fluttering  to  the  end  of  a  sentence  in  a 
breath  —  these  things,  and  the  leaf  falling  around  them 
and  the  vision  of  Yarner,  awoke  in  him  a  sense  of  return 
into  the  past.  But  for  the  words  she  spoke  they  might 
be  following  the  tenor  of  past  life  as  they  had  planned  it. 
In  spring  they  had  often  spoken  of  autumn,  and  she  had 
told  him  how  fair  and  fine  the  forest  spread  when  the 
golden  days  returned. 

His  heart  hungered  for  her  under  his  level  speech,  and 
she,  who  had  listened  and  felt  satisfied  by  his  tones  that 
all  was  going  to  be  smooth,  grew  startled  when  she  looked 
into  his  face  presently ;  because  his  eyes  spoke  another 
language  than  his  tongue,  and  she,  who  knew  what  hunger 
was,  saw  the  light  of  it  flickering  there. 

She  told  him  everything,  except  the  murder  of  his 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  303 

uncle,  and  he  told  her  everything  save  his  own  panic  deeds 
on  discovery  of  the  murder. 

She  left  him  impressed  with  the  fact  that  she  was  very 
happy  —  as  happy  as  ever  she  had  been  in  their  love  time  ; 
and  he  perceived  that  whatever  were  her  feelings  when 
she  accepted  Redstone,  the  result  had  been  absolutely 
successful  and  led  to  joy.  She  was  exceedingly  explicit, 
and  he  noticed  that  a  certain  subtlety  proper  to  her  old 
self  was  not  apparent  now.  A  charm  of  tender  thought 
and  gentle  imagination  lacked  from  her  speech,  and  he 
supposed,  either  that  intercourse  with  the  practical  Red- 
stone had  quenched  it,  or  that  it  was  an  ephemeral  beauty 
of  soul  awakened  by  her  love  for  him  and  perished  with 
that  love. 

He  went  away  from  her  with  much  to  think  upon. 
Great  moral  questions  arose  before  him,  but  he  evaded 
them  for  one  more  interesting.  He  asked  himself  if  this 
woman  could  ever  love  him  again  —  if  nature  could  so 
work  with  her  that  an  emotion,  apparently  dead  beyond 
recall,  might  be  raised  from  the  dead.  He  argued  that  it 
might,  because  his  own  love  for  her  had  by  no  means  per- 
ished. It  had  languished,  as  he  had  told  her,  but  it  had 
never  expired,  even  at  news  of  her  marriage ;  and  now 
that  he  knew  what  had  in  reality  separated  them,  now  that 
he  learned  that  his  dead  uncle's  words  were  true,  he  per- 
ceived the  size  of  Drusilla's  self-denial  in  the  past  and 
could  not  choose  but  love  her. 

Anon  he  thought  himself  into  a  frame  of  mind  unin- 
fluenced by  any  values  other  than  those  of  current  moral- 
ity. What  she  had  done  for  him  —  renounced  him  at 
mighty  personal  cost  for  his  own  good  —  that  he  must  now 
do  for  her.  She  had  been  handsomely  rewarded,  and  had 
passed  beyond  his  reach  for  ever :  he  recognised  the  fact. 
But  there  remained  evidence  of  deterioration  in  his  tem- 
per, and  the  old,  strong  rationalism  of  a  year  before  was 
weakened. 

He  could  find  it  in  him  bitterly  to  curse  the  dead  man ; 
he  could  find  it  in  him  heartily  to  long  that  his  hand 
indeed  had  slain  Lot  Snow. 


304  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

For  her  part  the  woman  was  more  moved  by  this 
lengthy  interview  than  slie  permitted  to  appear,  and  as 
she  had  stolen  back  in  Hashes  and  side-lights  to  the  im- 
agination of  Timothy  and  built  herself  back  into  the  old 
memory  he  entertained  of  her,  so  he  had  reasserted  him- 
self in  her  mind  as  the  resolute,  dominant  creature  of 
old.  But  whereas  she  stood  alone  in  his  regard,  with 
none  to  whom  she  might  be  compared,  in  her  case  there 
was  sufficient  foil,  and,  seen  against  her  husband,  her  old 
lover  came  short  in  many  particulars.  She  was  able, 
of  course,  from  the  standpoint  of  a  wife  to  survey  Tim- 
othy in  countless  new  relations.  She  admired  him  and 
esteemed  him  still ;  but  to  her  present  attitude  of  mind 
the  difference  between  Snow  and  Redstone  was  the  dif- 
ference between  a  lighthouse  and  a  great  wood  fire.  Her 
own  estimates  remained  assured,  but  she  wondered  what 
Redstone  would  think  of  Snow  and  what  Snow  would 
think  of  her  husband,  when  they  came  to  be  better  ac- 
quainted. She  foresaw  no  complications,  and  trusted 
that  the  men  would  be  friends.  It  is  true  that  there  had 
died  in  her  a  certain  element  of  maiden  romance  that 
had  touched  her  days  when,  like  a  nymph  without  a 
faun,  she  had  haunted  the  woodlands ;  but  she  was  a 
wife  now  —  happy,  content,  and  deeply  imbued  with  her 
husband's  opinions  and  attitude  to  responsibility.  She 
had  become  more  practical,  less  emotional,  more  affirmed 
and  staid.  Already  she  could  look  back  with  bewildered 
wonder  at  her  sentimental  madness,  when,  from  force  of 
grief,  she  had  laid  hands  on  her  own  life.  The  ugly 
dream  had  receded  into  a  past  inconceivably  remote, 
and  she  could  not  conceive  of  any  circumstances  arising 
which  might  shatter  anew  her  strength  or  lay  waste  that 
stout  edifice  of  common-sense,  courage,  and  self-posses- 
sion whose  foundations  were  laid  in  happy  wifehood. 


CHAPTER  VII 

His  meeting  with  Drusilla  had  been  widely  different  from 
the  imagined  thing,  and  Timothy  Snow  reflected,  not 
without  some  hollow  echo  of  laughter  in  his  soul,  at  the 
picture  he  had  made  of  that  meeting,  limned  through 
many  a  restless  night,  and  the  reality.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  say.  He  did  not  even  exonerate  himself  to  her,  or 
show  how  his  aunt's  disorder  prevented  her  from  com- 
municating with  Drusilla  before  it  was  too  late.  He  ac- 
cepted the  situation  gradually,  but  still  told  himself,  as 
a  salve  to  his  own  opinions,  that  had  he  found  the  woman 
not  happy,  he  would  have  endeavoured  to  draw  her  from 
her  husband  to  himself.  She  was,  however,  happy  — 
probably  happier  than  she  could  ever  have  been  with 
any  other.  Accident  had  played  fair  with  Redstone  and 
foul  with  Snow.  The  whole  concatenation  had  turned 
on  chance,  and  chance  favoured  the  other  man.  There 
was,  moreover,  one  fact  that  consoled  Timothy.  He  re- 
membered how  easy  it  is  for  humanity  to  cry  sour  grapes 
upon  occasion ;  but  he  believed  that  he  committed  no 
such  fatuity  when  telling  himself  in  cold  blood  that  Dru- 
silla had  sunk  mentally  from  her  maiden  standpoint. 
He  would  have  kept  her  on  a  higher  plane  than  Red- 
stone could ;  and  the  fact  that  she  had  so  easily  and 
happily  sunk  to  a  lower  one  comforted  Snow  in  his  loss. 

He  was  interested  anon  to  meet  with  John  Redstone, 
and  here  another  revelation  awaited  him.  He  had  formed 
a  mental  picture  of  Redstone  built  on  his  slight  ac- 
quaintance, and  elaborated  after  he  heard  that  Drusilla 
meant  to  marry  him.  Now  they  met  and  talked  together, 
and  Redstone  revealed  a  vigour  of  character  unsuspected 
by  the  other. 

Much  occupied  Snow's  days,  and  many  of  his  theories 
^°  305 


3o6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  opinions  suffered  modification  before  the  profound 
change  in  his  fortunes.  Life  was  altered,  and  he  learnt 
that  money,  if  not  a  power  in  the  sense  that  he  had  re- 
garded power,  was  none  the  less  an  ample  equivalent. 
Since  the  world  treated  money  as  power,  bowed  down  to 
it,  and  worshipped  it  as  supreme  power,  then,  spurious 
though  it  might  be  on  his  private  estimate,  for  practical 
purposes  it  fulfilled  the  tests.  When  that  happens  to 
alter  a  man's  environment  and  enhance  his  significance 
in  human  eyes,  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  continue  un- 
conscious of  the  fact,  or  conduct  himself  as  formerly. 
Snow  felt  uneasy  at  first  and  contemptuous  of  the  people. 
He  told  himself  that  though  they  might  change,  he  never 
could.  Then  he  began  to  grow  accustomed  to  the  im- 
plicit acknowledgment,  and  he  began  to  overlook  a  little 
the  sources  from  which  it  sprang.  It  was  left  for  a 
conversation  with  Redstone  to  restore  the  balance  and 
steady  his  perspective. 

Snow  saw  no  more  of  Drusilla  for  some  weeks;  but 
John  he  met  by  appointment,  and  together  they  rode  to 
Dury  Farm,  that  Timothy  might  see  old  Mr.  Jacob  Red- 
stone and  question  him  concerning  facts  relative  to  the 
past,  when  his  son  lived. 

They  met  at  Bag  Tor,  above  Ilsington,  and  trotted 
through  fair  weather  to  the  distant  farm. 

Snow  was  silent  at  first,  for  he  had  much  on  his  mind ; 
but  the  other  interested  him  presently,  and  they  spoke 
very  openly  together. 

"  I  hope  and  trust,"  said  John,  "  that  so  far  as  you  and 
me  be  concerned  the  future's  clear.  You  know  what 
there  is  to  know,  and  I'd  like  for  you  to  say  you  bear  no 
ill-will  against  anybody.  'Tis  just  the  falling  out  of 
things,  and  seemingly  another  example  of  the  old  saw 
that  unlucky  in  love,  lucky  in  life." 

"  That's  so.  I  didn't  think  there  were  such  plain- 
speaking  people  in  the  world  as  you  and  Drusilla.  She 
wasn't  so  definite  once,  but  you've  made  her.  In  this 
case  it  was  the  right  and  proper  way,  of  course." 

"  I  hate  for  things  to  be  doubtful  and  uncertain.     I 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  307 

wanted  you  to  know  that  none  had  been  mean  or  unsport- 
ing or  anything  like  that." 

"  All  is  clear." 

"  So  much  the  better.  There's  little  enough  I  care  a 
damn  about,  and  few  enough  I  care  a  damn  about ;  but 
where  I  think  a  lot  of  a  man,  same  as  I  think  of  you,  I 
don't  want  to  be  undervalued  or  not  understood.  I'm 
simple  and  ignorant,  but  so  are  most  people.  You're 
different.  You're  a  very  clever  man,  and  it  would  be  a 
great  thing  for  such  as  me  to  know  you  and  have  the  luck 
to  listen  to  you  now  and  then." 

"  You  know  yourself,  seemingly." 

"  Pretty  well,  but  I  can  surprise  myself  still.  Now  I 
lay  you  couldn't  do  that?  " 

"  Life  surprises  me.  I  always  wanted  to  escape  re- 
sponsibility for  the  sake  of  getting  real  power ;  but  now 
responsibilty  is  thrust  upon  me  —  and  all  it  means." 

"  A  teaching  thing,  no  doubt  —  to  find  yourself  some- 
body to  other  people,  and  yet  to  know  you're  still  the 
same  man  to  yourself.  Now  you'll  have  to  set  an  ex- 
ample and  all  that  rot,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I've  always  tried  to  live  up  to  my  convictions." 

"  And  always  succeeded,  no  doubt.  But  maybe  they'll 
be  shook  a  bit  now.  Money's  money,  and  I'd  be  the  last 
to  flout  it.  Morals  may  be  a  very  good  stick  to  beat  a 
dog;  but  money's  better  than  morals,  by  just  so  much 
as  a  sovereign's  better'n  a  sermon  all  the  world  over. 
You've  got  power  now  —  you're  lifted  up  to  be  a  fifty 
horse  power  machine  where  your  high  character  alone 
did  just  the  other  thing:  it  pulled  you  down  and  stood  in 
your  way." 

"  You're  mean  to  think  like  that,"  said  Snow. 

**  I  don't  say  it's  right  or  wrong ;  I  only  say  it's  so," 
answered  the  other.  "  You  know  how  people  look  at 
you  now ;  you  know  how  many  touch  their  hats  who 
naturally  didn't  when  you  was  doing  gamekeeper's  work  ; 
and  you  know  if  people  ever  touch  their  hats  to  good- 
ness and  high  moral  opinions.  I  don't,  anyway.  I  touch 
it  to  power  —  nought  else.     'Tisn't  the  high  morals  that 


3o8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

you  may  have  that  drew  mc  after  you.  'Twas  the  feel- 
ing tliat  you  were  a  lot  stronger  than  most  chaps  — 
strong  enough  to  flout  the  herd  of  us  and  go  your  own 
way,  like  the  hawks  and  foxes.  And  now  your  strength 
be  doubled  and  trebled,  for  gold's  the  strongest  metal, 
and  saves  a  man  an  awful  lot  of  trouble  if  he's  got  it. 
It  will  help  you  to  be  harder  than  ever  you  were ;  and 
'twill  larn  you  a  lot  worth  knowing  about  your  fellow- 
man  ;  and  'tis  a  weapon  of  might  against  your  enemies, 
if  you've  got  any.  I'd  sooner  have  it  than  anything  in 
the  world  —  except  what  I've  gotten.  Why,  'tis  like 
keeping  an  army  of  soldiers  to  fight  your  battles  for  you 
—  an  army  of  yellow  boys  —  a  conquering  army,  too, 
for  there's  hardly  anything  that  men  and  w^omen  want 
and  seek  nowadays  but  money  can  get  it.  I  daresay 
that's  a  shameful  thing,  but  it's  a  true  thing.  You  can 
make  what  terms  you  please  with  life  now%  because  the 
world  always  gives  in  to  money  —  from  its  kings  to  its 
tinkers." 

"  'Twas  a  cleaner  place,  however,  when  money  didn't 
count  for  everything." 

"  That  was  when  the  right  arm  held  its  own.  Well, 
you  was  a  man  of  your  hands  in  your  time,  and  now 
you'll  be  a  man  of  your  head ;  and  brains  and  money 
together  conquer  the  earth.  Afore,  you  had  to  follow 
your  own  ideas  and  keep  your  mouth  shut  —  eh  ?  You 
practised  your  own  opinions  but  dared  not  preach  'em." 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Snow,  "  that's  true,  and  money  alters 
that.  Before,  I  was  cunning  as  a  serpent,  but  took  good 
care  not  to  hiss  for  fear  of  frightening  people  and  getting 
a  crack  on  the  head  I  didn't  deserve.  Now  I  fear  noth- 
ing of  that  sort.  What's  dangerous  talk  in  a  gamekeeper 
is  wisdom  to  be  reckoned  with  in  a  man  with  money  and 
land,  and  power  to  employ  labour.  I  thought  I  knew 
how  mean-minded  and  small  and  trashy  most  people 
were  already ;  but  you  must  come  into  a  bit  of  cash  to 
understand  how  low  they'll  sink." 

"  Don't  you  get  bitter  against  your  fellow-creatures, 
however.     It  ban't  their  fault.     You  can't  be  honest  and 


THE  F0RB:ST  on  the  hill  309 

live  ill  a  crowd  nowadays,  and  you  can't  live  far  out 
of  a  crowd  if  you're  so  poor  as  most  of  us.  We've 
got  to  herd  to  keep  warm ;  we've  got  to  herd  to  keep 
food  in  the  pot.  And  since  the  upper  people  all  put 
money  first  and  fight  for  it,  and  trample  the  under  people 
to  prevent  'em  from  getting  too  much  of  it,  then  you 
can't  blame  the  poor  for  cringing  to  you.  'Tis  the  only 
way  they've  got  of  showing  you  they  know  you  are  above 
'em,  and  may  henceforth  carry  their  food  in  your  hand. 
Some  must  get  good  out  of  you,  and  none  can  say  who  may 
not,  so  all  cringe.  'Tis  the  possibility  about  every  rich 
man  that  makes  the  world  bend  the  knee  to  him.  Mark 
me,  they'll  all  do  it.  I  know  but  one  who  won't,  be- 
cause he  can't.  He's  never  lamed  the  trick,  for  all  his 
great  age ;  and  that's  him  you  be  going  to  see  now  —  my 
grandfather." 

"If  the  people  knew  me,  however,  they'd  know  'twas 
just  going  the  wrong  way  to  work." 

Redstone  laughed. 

"  You  think  so  now,  but  wait  a  bit.  Money's  a  taste 
that  rides  roughshod  over  a  man  terrible  quick.  I've 
heard  a  lot  about  it  from  my  old  grandfather,  and  he's 
shown  me  how  it  speeds  through  a  man's  senses,  and 
changes  his  outlook  in  no  time,  like  strong  drink  do." 

"  Nought  can  change  character.  Nature  arms  us 
against  such  a  thing." 

"  'Tisn't  to  change  character  — 'tis  to  give  character  a 
chance.  You'll  see  presently,  and  you'll  find  the  poor 
that  bow  their  backs  to  you,  know  best  what  you  want 
—  better  than  you  know  yourself.  You  want  'em  to 
bend,  though  you  think  you  don't ;  and  the  man  who 
passed  you  by,  same  as  he  did  when  you  carried  a  gun 
under  your  arm  and  bred  pheasants  —  that  man  would 
find  he'd  made  a  mistake  if  you  got  the  chance  to  show 
him  he  had." 

"  What  a  poor  creature  you  must  think  me,"  said  Snow 
calmly. 

"  Not  I.  I  think  a  terrible  lot  of  you  ;  your  little  finger 
knows  more  than  my  head ;  but  if  you  fancy  you'll  never 


3IO  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

come  to  feel  like  other  rich  men  and  to  trust  money,  like 
them  who  have  to  trust  it,  then  you're  wrong.  That's  not 
contrary  to  nature  — 'tis  a  certainty." 

"  Money  can't  alter  the  way  I  value  things." 

"  But  it  can  alter  the  way  you've  valued,  and  that  alters 
the  way  you  value  things,  say  what  you  will.  Haven't  a 
shilling  sunk  to  be  worth  less  to  your  mind  than  sixpence 
used  to  be?  And  the  same  with  all  else.  You're  like  a 
child  with  a  jack-in-the-box.  'Tis  nought  till  you  open 
the  lid  —  then  you'll  see.  You  don't  know  what  money 
can  do  yet :  you  only  guess.  Would  you  part  from  it  this 
minute  for  the  old  peace  of  mind  and  lack  of  responsi- 
bility? No,  you're  not  such  a  fool.  You'll  find  power 
be  better  than  peace  —  more  exciting  and  interesting  — 
more  in  keeping  for  a  strong  man  like  you,  with  brains  in 
his  head." 

"  There's  Nature,"  said  Snow.  "  Nature's  been  my 
guide  always,  and  I've  never  trusted  her  in  vain.  I've 
got  to  reconcile  this  accidental  power  with  her  rules. 
I've  got  to  see  how  to  plan  my  life.  Earthquakes  have 
happened  in  it.  Things  have  been  given  and  things  have 
been  taken  away.  It  wants  a  steady  man  to  stand  four- 
square to  the  situation  I  find  myself  in." 

Redstone  did  not  answer  this,  and  when  Timothy  spoke 
again  it  was  on  the  subject  of  Dury.  He  had  made  it 
clear  that  he  would  not  pursue  the  policy  of  his  uncle, 
and  the  lawyers  felt  no  reason  to  insist  on  that  course. 
.  ,  ,  They  arrived  at  the  farm  presently,  and  partook  of 
a  meal  of  bread  and  cheese  and  beer  that  old  Jacob  had 
prepared  for  them. 

He  was  cheerful  and  humorous  as  ever,  and  greeted 
Timothy  as  Redstone  had  foretold. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Snow,  you  be  the  monkey  that  have  seen  the 
world  —  and  how  do  'e  find  it?  " 

"  I  find  it  terrible  big,  Jacob,  yet  not  big  enough,"  said 
the  visitor,  "  There's  too  much  sea,  in  my  opinion  — 
cruel  waste  those  thousands  of  miles  of  salt  water." 

"  Don't  you  say  that.  The  World-maker's  got  chapter 
and  verse  for  all  He  does,  depend  on  it.     If  there  was  no 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  311 

sea,  what  would  the  fishes  do,  and  where  would  this  here 
river  Dart  go  to?  The  sea  have  kept  humans  off  one 
another's  throats  time  and  again,  and  given  'em  a  chance 
to  still  their  angry  passions.  The  sea  have  taught  men 
patience.  And  Him  as  made  it  can  unmake  it  if  He  sees 
fit.  He  could  draw  it  off,  Timothy  Snow,  if  more  land 
was  called  for,  like  you  blot  up  ink  with  paper.  But  'tis 
the  meek  will  inherit  the  earth,  and  there's  more  than 
enough  for  that  little  company.  As  for  England,  she's 
bit  off  more  than  she  can  chew  as  'tis.  'Tis  a  pitiful  thing 
to  see  her  nowadays,  cackling  like  a  frightened  fowl  over 
her  eggs." 

Here  at  least  were  two  men  who  doffed  no  hat  to  Tim- 
othy. Though  he  held  power  over  them  and  might  have 
made  them  suffer  in  the  most  serious  particulars,  they  dis- 
played neither  respect  nor  ceremony. 

They  laughed  and  jested  with  him,  and  hesitated  not  to 
differ  from  him.  Jacob  openly  doubted  the  wisdom  of 
putting  trust  in  Nature,  and  prophesied  a  harsh  awaken- 
ing for  Timothy  if  he  did  so;  while  John  Redstone  was 
more  of  the  younger  man's  mind  in  that  particular,  and 
flouted  his  grandfather's  trust  in  God. 

"If  you  be  going  to  try  to  set  the  world  right,  you  do  it 
your  own  way  and  not  grandfather's,"  advised  John ;  but 
Snow  denied  any  such  ambition. 

"  I'm  going  to  try  and  set  myself  right,"  he  said. 
"  Here's  a  chance  that  falls  to  few.  I've  got  a  brain, 
and  now  I'm  going  to  set  to  work  to  see  what  'tis  good 
for." 

"  Don't  you  punish  it  too  hard,"  said  old  Jacob.  "  'Tis 
an  open-air  brain,  and  you've  won  your  wittiness  from 
the  open  air  on  your  own  showing.  I  shouldn't  go  read- 
ing a  pack  of  books,  if  I  was  you.  You  give  the  Bible  a 
chance,  young  man.  'Tis  a  very  remarkable  thing  about 
the  Word,  in  my  opinion,  that  the  more  you  delve  in  it, 
the  better  the  crop,  and  the  less  you  want  to  go  to  any 
other  book." 

They  spoke  of  happiness. 

"  Some  folk  fight  the  world,  and  some  turn  their  backs 


312  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

on  the  world  and  fight  themselves,  and  find  that  all  the 
fighting  they  want,"  said  Snow.  "  Happiness  is  to  be  got 
out  of  fighting  no  doubt,  and  'tis  the  right  sort  of  happi- 
ness for  a  brave  man." 

"  Things  like  fighting  don't  bring  it,  however,"  declared 
Jacob.  "  Happiness  don't  depend  on  what  you  think,  nor 
yet  upon  what  you  do :  you'll  find  that  out  long  afore  you 
get  up  as  old  as  me.  It  don't  depend  on  fighting,  or  lying 
low,  or  upon  your  health,  or  sickness,  or  upon  wealth  or 
poverty,  or  upon  the  measure  of  your  sense,  or  upon  the 
nature  of  your  luck.  'Tis  just  a  gift,  like  blue  eyes,  or  a 
good  temper;  and  life  can't  make  you  an  unhappy  man 
if  the  Lord's  decided  you  are  to  be  a  happy  one." 

**  The  less  wit  the  more  happiness,  I  believe,"  said  his 
grandson ;  but  Jacob  questioned  this. 

"  I've  known  very  great  fools  to  be  very  miserable 
men,"  he  said,  "  and  I've  seen  very  clever  men  pretty 
cheerful  when  the  wind  blew  warm." 

"If  you  look  round  about  in  a  thinking  spirit  you  can't 
be  happy,"  asserted  Snow. 

"  No  doubt  that's  why  I  be,  then,"  answered  John 
Redstone.  "  I'm  happy  as  a  lark,  just  because  I  don't 
look  round  about.  But  you  can't  say  that  neither,  be- 
cause I  do.  No,  the  reason's  dififerent.  I'm  happy  be- 
cause I  wasn't  born  to  set  nothing  right ;  and  what  can't 
be  altered  won't  never  trouble  me.  If  you  can  do  any 
good,  then  do  it ;  if  you  can't,  then  keep  your  nerve  about 
it  and  don't  yelp." 

The  trend  of  the  talk  and  the  point  of  view  of  these 
men  interested  Timothy  a  great  deal,  but  it  was  the 
younger  that  attracted  him  most,  because,  like  himself, 
Redstone  had  thrown  over  revealed  religion.  It  seemed 
indeed  in  some  particulars  that  Redstone  was  ahead  of 
Timothy.  He  struck  Snow  as  a  man  who  would  not 
divide  theory  and  practice.  His  good  faith  seemed  im- 
possible to  question.  He  found  himself  doubting  his 
former  opinion :  that  Drusilla  had  made  a  mental  change 
for  the  worse  when  she  left  him  for  her  husband.  Red- 
stone was  strong,  and  not  sicklied  by  too  much  thinking. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  313 

He  played  for  his  own  hand,  rejoiced  in  his  luck,  fed 
richly  at  the  table  of  life  while  he  might,  and  looked 
neither  behind  nor  ahead.  Snow  envied  him  his  power 
of  abstraction  and  simplification ;  but  Jacob  explained  it 
when  they  spoke  apart. 

"  'Tis  the  woman  he's  hungered  and  hankered  for. 
He's  her  god.  And  for  the  creature  to  be  god  to  an- 
other creature  is  the  highest  we  can  reach  to  —  though 
dangerous,  no  doubt.  We  can't  feel  more  like  god  than 
when  we're  reigning  in  a  human  heart.  Life's  a  very 
good  and  blessed  thing  to  him.  He's  that  single-minded 
you  see.  I  hope  you'll  come  to  the  same  great,  natural 
joys,  young  man.  In  my  case  'twasn't  quite  like  that, 
because  I  wasn't  god  to  my  missis :  she  was  god  to  me. 
A  wise  creature,  with  judgment  that  would  have  been 
surprising  in  a  male.  She  was  very  happy  along  with 
me,  but  never  blind  to  her  own  more  lofty  nature.  She 
never  mentioned  it,  you  know  —  too  nice  for  that.  But 
there  'twas,  and  only  the  great  sense  that  I'd  gleaned 
from  her  kept  me  from  going  silly  when  she  was  called 
away."  Then  he  spoke  of  the  visitor.  "  You're  one  of 
the  lucky  ones,  you  are.  You've  been  poor,  and  now  you 
be  rich.  Money  can  never  blind  you,  like  it  does  them 
that  are  born  to  it.  But  where  poverty  dulled  your  sight, 
money  may  brighten  it  now." 

"  I  mean  to  do  something  in  the  world,  however  —  not 
to  stand  and  look  on,"  said  Snow. 

"  Who  don't  ?  "  answered  the  old  man.  "  But  you'll 
do  well  to  take  a  good  look  first.  Don't  dash  at  it :  go 
back  for  your  spring." 

Snow  learned  what  he  had  come  to  learn,  undertook 
to  let  the  Redstones  redeem  Dury  as  easily  as  it  might 
be  done,  and  rode  back  to  Ilsington  in  the  evening  with 
John. 

Their  talk  fell  on  Lot  Snow,  and  they  argued  upon  his 
nature,  and  why  all  men  had  disliked  him  and  mistrusted 
him.  Redstone  was  confident  that  Lot  must  be  dead, 
and  Timothy  declared  that  he  believed  the  like.  He 
speculated  on  what  accident  had  ended  his  uncle's  ca- 


314  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

reer,  and  the  other,  indifferent  to  the  wisdom  or  folly  of 
opening  the  subject,  argued  in  opposition. 

"  If  you  ax  me,"  John  declared,  "  I  believe  the  old  bird 
was  knocked  on  the  head.  There's  a  score  of  men  who 
must  have  itched  to  do  it.  You  say  yourself,  when  you 
come  to  look  into  his  affairs  that  you  found  that  he  de- 
voured widow's  houses  and  all  that.  Take  me  —  I  might 
have  done  it ;  take  you  —  you  might  have  done  it.  If 
his  murderer  turned  up  to-morrow,  there's  not  a  living 
man  would  particular  want  to  punish  him.  No  doubt 
the  Law  would  do  so,  but  human  nature's  just  in  the 
long  run,  and  if  a  deed  does  good  to  the  larger  number 
at  the  expense  of  the  few,  few  will  cry  out  against  it." 

"  There's  the  Law,  however,  as  you  say,"  replied  Tim- 
othy ;  "  murder's  murder,  and  the  Law  hangs  for  it." 

"  Then  be  hanged  to  the  Law  afore  it  finds  him.  We'll 
wish  the  chap  luck,  whoever  'twas,"  answered  John. 

They  parted  presently,  and  Snow  returned  to  his  aunt 
and  his  mother  at  Ilsington,  while  Redstone  met  Drusilla, 
where  she  had  promised  to  meet  him,  on  the  way  home 
above  the  heights  of  Yarner. 

The  matter  swiftly  vanished  out  of  John's  mind,  but 
from  Snow's  it  did  not  so  quickly  depart.  For  the  first 
time  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  overtook  him.  He  per- 
ceived that  Redstone  might  have  murdered  Lot  Snow, 
and  noted,  what  was  more  significant,  that  he  was  just 
the  man  to  have  done  such  a  deed  in  hot  blood  and  not 
repented  it  in  cold.  The  subject  fascinated  him,  and  the 
possibility  awoke  a  sort  of  respect  for  Redstone  rather 
than  any  aversion  from  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  subtle  changes  in  human  relations  that  influence 
action  now  led  Frederick  Moyle  to  the  supreme  event  of 
his  life.  He  found  himself  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma, 
and  we  see  him  at  last  by  night  solving  his  great  uncer- 
tainties. 

It  happened  that  another  —  Audrey  Leaman  —  was 
faced  at  the  same  time  with  a  crisis  in  her  fortunes,  and 
through  the  brief  days  of  doubt  she  chose  the  companion- 
ship of  Moyle.  He  was  an  old  friend,  he  cared  deeply  for 
her,  and  she  was  almost  minded  to  take  him  into  her  con- 
fidence. But  she  did  not,  and  he,  mistaking  the  motives 
of  her  amity,  felt  great  hope  awaken.  He  believed  that 
she  began  to  find  him  essential ;  indeed,  she  had  assured 
him  sometimes  that  he  was  her  best  friend  and  most 
faithful  companion.  Audrey  had  met  Timothy  Snow  and 
his  mother ;  and  she  had  told  Moyle  that  Timothy  was 
changed.  Her  own  attitude  toward  him  she  did  not  dwell 
upon,  but  Frederick  guessed  that  it  was  not  unfriendly. 
He  supposed,  therefore,  that  the  secret  of  which  Audrey 
hinted  must  be  concerned  with  his  old  enemy. 

For  a  time  his  mind  hung  balanced  between  the  man 
and  the  woman.  Love  for  one  and  hatred  of  the  other 
kept  him  in  equilibrium ;  but  upon  Audrey's  apparent 
increase  of  regard,  there  awoke  an  inspiration,  and  Moyle 
was  now  writing  a  letter  that  must  precipitate  the 
event. 

He  believed  that  the  girl  stood  in  doubt  between  him 
and  Snow ;  he  suspected  that  she  cared  more  for  him,  but 
that  Timothy's  possessions  and  the  pressure  of  her  par- 
ents might  be  tempting  her  towards  his  enemy.  He  felt 
that,  with  his  private  knowledge,  the  game  was  in  his 
hands ;  and  he  believed  that  her  interest  in  Snow  was 
probably  just  sufficient  to  make  Audrey  do  the  thing  he 

315 


3i6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

desired.  She  could  not  marry  Snow,  but  he  would  make 
it  possible  for  her  to  save  him.  Such  a  course  must  lose 
Moyle  his  revenge,  but  he  would  be  recompensed  by  win- 
ning Audrey  for  a  wife.  Moreover,  the  sweetest  part 
of  vengeance  in  no  case  would  be  denied,  for  Snow  should 
privately  hear  of  his  discovery  and  go  haunted  with  ter- 
ror to  the  grave. 

Long  reflections  brought  him  to  a  conclusion,  and  his 
master-stroke  took  the  shape  of  a  letter  to  Audrey  Lea- 
man.  Little  considering  the  awful  burden  he  was  sud- 
denly thrusting  upon  shoulders  so  ill  fitted  to  sustain  it, 
he  told  her  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth  in  brief, 
blunt  terms,  and  faced  her  with  the  tremendous  alterna- 
tive of  saving  Snow  by  marrying  the  writer,  or  sacri- 
ficing Snow  by  refusal. 

The  letter  was  modified  and  re-copied  thrice  before 
Frederick  felt  satisfied  that  it  conveyed  his  exact  mean- 
ing. 

"  My  dearest  Audrey, —  You  have  long  known  that  I  love  you 
better  and  truer  than  any  man  you  ever  met,  and  you  have  told 
me  yourself  that  I  wore  better  than  any  of  the  others.  And  that 
is  true,  for  after  years  and  years  I  have  got  to  know  you  so 
well  that  you  seem  the  best  part  of  my  life.  I  understand  you 
inside  out,  and  I  know,  as  well  as  I  know  anything  on  God's 
earth,  that  I  am  the  man,  and  the  only  man,  for  your  husband. 
I'm  easy  going  and  fond  of  pleasure  and  life  and  happiness,  and 
I'd  never  harry  or  bully  you,  but  always  think  of  your  fun  and 
joy,  and  be  ready  to  fall  in  with  your  wishes  and  opinions  about 
things  in  general. 

"  Yes,  I  wear  well,  dear  Audrey,  but  I'm  human  and  I  don't 
want  to  wear  out  —  that  is,  with  waiting.  And,  in  a  word,  I'm 
not  going  to  wait  no  more. 

"  I  have  hinted  dark  and  terrible  things  to  you  lately,  and  the 
time  has  come  for  hinting  no  more  but  talking  plain. 

"  You've  got  to  decide  about  your  life  now  —  right  away,  and 
I'm  sorry  to  put  you  in  rather  a  fix  over  it ;  but  I  should  be  too 
sporting  to  do  so  if  I  didn't  know  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
by  many  signs  and  tokens,  it  won't  take  you  long  or  try  you 
very  much  to  make  up  your  mind.  Because  I  know  you  love 
me,  Audrey  dearest.  You  have  shown  me  you  do  by  a  thousand 
little  signs,  and  you  have  told  me  you  never  feel  so  easy  and 
comfortable  as  you  do  along  with  me.  And  I  worship  you.  and 
know  very  well  what  you  want,  and  that  I  shall  be  just  the  exact 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  317 

man  for  you  in  every  sort  of  way.  For  never  did  a  couple  think 
alike  and  take  the  same  view  of  everything  like  what  we  do. 

"  And  now,  Audrey,  I  must  tell  you  the  terrible  truth.  I  know 
you  feel  kindly  to  Timothy  Snow,  and  would  be  very  sorry  for 
any  trouble  to  overtake  him ;  but  there's  worse  than  trouble  in 
the  air  for  him.  In  fact,  there's  death  waiting  for  him,  and  I'm 
going  to  speak  out  now  and  tell  you  all  about  it. 

"  On  the  day  his  Uncle  Lot  disappeared,  Timothy  Snow  met 
me  on  Hey  Tor  Down  and  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  the  old  man. 
I  had  seen  him,  and  told  Timothy  which  way  he  had  gone.  You 
know  what  happened  after.  Lot  Snow  vanished,  and  Timothy 
Snow  went  to  foreign  parts.  There  was  hue  and  cry,  and  pres- 
ently you  found  Lot's  hat  and  very  wisely  brought  it  to  me.  I 
put  you  off  when  you  asked  me  if  I'd  found  anything,  because 
I  felt  that  it  was  not  the  time  to  speak.  But  I  did  find  some- 
thing, and  that  something  was  the  dead  body  of  old  Snow  in  a 
pit  hid  up  with  leaves.  And  I  put  more  leaves  and  brushwood 
on  the  carcase,  so  that  none  else  should  find  it. 

"  Now  you  understand  how  it  is.  This  man,  Timothy  Snow, 
killed  his  uncle  in  Yarner  by  the  old  mine  and  hid  him  there. 
He  is  in  my  hand,  and  I  give  his  life  up  to  you.  But  there's 
a  condition  attaching  to  it  which  you  will  very  easily  guess. 

"  Mind  you,  Audrey,  I  would  not  make  the  condition,  or  come 
to  you  with  this  tale  at  all,  if  I  did  not  feel  sure  I  was  only 
hastening  you  to  do  what  you  want  to  do  already.  I'm  not  the 
cruel  or  brutal  sort,  who  hold  a  pistol  to  a  girl's  head  or  any- 
thing of  that.  I  do  honestly  believe  you  love  me  better  than 
anybody  in  the  world,  and  well  I  know  how  much  I  love  you. 
But,  as  Snow  have  been  pretty  well  known  to  you  and  you  feel 
kindly  to  him,  I'm  making  assurance  doubly  sure  for  myself  by 
telling  you  the  dreadful  thing  that  he's  done.  All's  fair  in  love 
and  war,  you  know,  Audrey  darling,  and  so  I've  got  to  say  this 
to  you :  that  you  must  do  a  good  turn  to  two  men  at  once,  and 
you  must  marry  me  and  save  Timothy. 

"  You  know  very  well  what  a  cruel  grudge  I've  got  against 
him,  and  what  a  blackguard  way  he  treated  me ;  but  that  is  all 
past,  and  it  does  not  weigh  with  me  at  all.  I  am  quite  impar- 
tial about  it,  but  I  have  certainly  done  a  brilliant  stroke  in  my 
business,  and  made  a  discovery  that  will  get  me  high  promotion, 
and  very  likely  get  me  taken  on  right  away  at  Scotland  Yard 
and  put  in  the  detective  service.  And  you  will  see  in  a  minute 
that  it  can't  be  a  small  thing  to  make  me  deny  myself  all  that 
advantage. 

"  But  you  are  not  a  small  thing.  You  are  everything  in  the 
world  to  me,  and  I  would  rather  stop  on  in  Ilsington  as  a  com- 
mon constable  with  you  for  a  wife  than  be  head  of  the  service 
without  you. 

"  So  there  it  stands,  and  I   feel  pretty  sure  you  will  come  to 


3i8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

me  and  save  Snow.  And  God  knows  you  will  never  regret  it  for 
an  hour  if  you  do  so. 

"  I  cannot  wait,  for  time  presses,  and  I  must  ask  you  to  meet 
me  to-morrow  night.  I  am  sorry  to  make  the  time  so  short,  but 
I  must.  And  I  say  again  I  know  pretty  well  what  you  will  feel, 
and  so  it  won't  take  you  very  long  to  make  up  your  mind. 

"  I  must  warn  you  too,  Audrey,  that  you  can't  save  Snow 
except  by  marrying  me ;  because  I  shall  take  steps,  after  sending 
you  this  letter,  to  see  that  you  do  not  communicate  with  him 
even  if  you  wanted  to.  I  have  planned  it  all  as  only  a  policeman 
can  do  such  things. 

"  So  I  ask  you  to  meet  me  to-morrow  by  the  old  tram  line  in 
Yarner  —  where  it  runs  above  the  mine.  You  know  the  place. 
We've  been  there  often  enough  together.  I'll  get  there  before 
dusk  and  see  you  home  after.  And  I  shall  be  terrible  firm,  dear 
Audrey,  because  it's  life  or  death  to  me,  as  well  as  to  the  other 
man.  I  must  be  terrible  firm,  and  warn  you  that  nothing  on 
God's  earth  must  stop  you  from  coming.  I'll  take  no  denial  be- 
cause, as  I  tell  you,  my  whole  life  hangs  upon  it.  You  must 
come,  and  not  anything  on  God's  earth  must  prevent  you  from 
coming.  And  if  you  don't  come,  you'll  be  putting  a  rope  round 
Timothy's  neck  just  as  sure  as  if  you  was  the  hangman.  If  you 
don't  come  by  half  after  five,  Audrey,  I  shall  go  straight  and 
apply  for  the  warrant.  You'll  have  no  chance  afterwards  to 
change  your  mind,  because  once  I  get  the  warrant  out,  all  else 
must  follow  in  due  course,  and  there's  no  earthly  power  to  pre- 
vent it  or  save  the  murderer. 

"You'll  hang  Timothy  Snow  if  you  don't  come  —  be  positive 
certain  of  that.  For  it  was  a  very  dirty  murder,  and  planned 
careful  and  hidden  careful.    He's  done  for  if  I  move  a  finger. 

"  I  tell  you  again,  Audrey  dearest,  that  I  wouldn't  put  you  in 
the  tight  place  of  having  to  decide  over  this  if  I  didn't  feel  sure 
in  my  heart  it  won't  be  difficult  to  do. 

"  I'm  a  very  honourable  man,  and  wouldn't  talk  of  blackmail 
or  any  beastly  thing  like  that ;  but  life's  life  and  luck's  luck,  and 
I  can't  throw  away  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  now  it  has  come.  I 
must  have  fame,  or  I  must  have  you.  And  you  are  better  than 
all  the  fame  in  the  world. 

"  So  there  it  is,  and  I  leave  it  at  that,  and  I  know  you'll  be  by 
the  old  tram  line  by  five  o'clock  or  near  it.  I  don't  think  I  can 
make  my  meaning  clearer,  and  you  will  quite  understand  there 
must  be  no  second  thoughts  this  time. 

"  Snow's  life  was  in  my  hand  and  I've  put  it  into  yours,  and 
to-morrow  you've  got  to  tell  me  whether  he  is  to  live  or  die. 
Remember  you  cannot  help  him  against  me,  because  it  is  impos- 
sible for  him  to  escape  me  now.     He's  watched  every  hour. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  319 

"  It  sounds  a  bit  brutal  put  like  this,  but  I  can't  put  it  no  other 
way,  and,  after  all,  you  love  me  best,  and  I  know  it.  and  that's 
everything. —  Your  faithful  lover, 

Fred." 

Mr.  Moyle  took  this  letter  to  the  little  post-office  of 
Ilsington  an  hour  after  midnight,  and  he  knew  that  Ati- 
drey  must  get  it  on  the  morning  of  that  day. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Torrential  rains  had  beaten  since  noon  upon  the  earth, 
and  persisted  until  evening.  Then  the  sky  paled  a  little 
in  the  eye  of  the  wind,  and  the  grey  wore  threadbare 
into  patches  of  light,  as  Frederick  Moyle  walked  over 
the  skirts  of  the  Moor  to  Yarner.  From  under  lifting 
fog-banks  the  soaking  heath  crept  out  starkly  round  him 
in  the  clearness  after  rain.  Grey  lumbering  cumuli  still 
hid  the  peaks  of  the  land,  but  there  was  broken  light  in 
them,  and  each  new-born  pool,  each  rivulet  flashing  over 
green  grass,  stared  or  glittered  from  the  darkness  of  the 
water-logged  waste.  The  ferns'  dry  russet  had  turned 
to  an  auburn  that  was  full  of  sulky  purple ;  the  sponges 
of  the  peat  were  overflowing ;  even  the  shelves  and  ledges 
of  the  rocks  dripped  a  steady  rain  upon  the  pitted  earth 
beneath  them,  and  the  clear,  washed  air  was  full  of  the 
murmur  of  water. 

Frederick  passed  to  his  vital  tryst  through  gathering 
twilight,  for  evening  appeared  to  hasten,  and  it  was 
gloomy  before  he  reached  the  old  tram  line  and  began  to 
pace  thereon.  But  the  fog  rose  and  swept  away  for  a 
season,  and  on  the  arch  and  verge  of  the  immense  hill 
that  swung  westerly  above  him  there  gleamed  a  pale, 
green  light  and  hung  a  star. 

Audrey  delayed,  and,  though  he  stopped  often  to  listen 
for  her  footfall,  no  sounds  but  the  forest  sounds  reached 
him.  Very  black  against  the  dim  face  of  the  woods  as- 
cended the  chimney  of  the  old  mine,  and  night  already 
brooded  upon  it. 

The  watcher  reflected  that  in  the  space  of  thirty  min- 
utes would  be  decided  the  mighty  question  of  his  life. 
He  imagined  Lot  Snow's  dust  hidden  in  the  gloom  be- 
neath, waiting  and  listening  to  know  whether  fate  was  to 

320 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  321 

reveal  the  truth  at  dawn  of  another  day,  or  conceal  it 
perhaps  for  ever. 

Into  the  pallid  sky  rolled  presently  a  moon  short  of  full. 
Like  a  great,  ripe  fruit  she  hung  low  over  the  ragged  rim 
of  the  forest  and  paled  from  red  gold  to  silver  as  she 
rose.  The  last  blackbird  had  cried,  and  the  woods  were 
profoundly  still.  Only  the  pines  uttered  a  fitful  sighing. 
Then  the  gibbous  planet,  sailing  high,  rained  down  light 
upon  the  wet  earth,  so  that  the  grass,  all  pearl-coloured 
with  moisture,  glittered  between  the  shadows,  and  the 
nearly  naked  boughs  of  the  trees  flashed,  where  countless 
liquid  diamonds  were  strung  upon  their  network  of  dark- 
ness. 

Audrey  Leaman  gave  no  sign,  and  as  the  minutes 
passed,  anger  kept  the  watcher  warm.  For  half  an  hour 
beyond  the  limit  of  appointed  time  he  waited,  then  he 
broke  from  his  measured  tramp,  stood  one  moment,  ex- 
pired a  great  gust  of  air  from  his  lungs  and  with  it 
banished  the  first  ambition  of  his  life  for  ever.  The 
salt  of  existence  would  not  be  found  in  a  woman's  arms. 
She  was  obdurate,  and  cared  nothing,  it  seemed,  for  the 
one  man  or  the  other. 

He  turned  to  the  future  and  suffered  the  spectacle  of 
his  own  approaching  significance  to  dwarf  his  disappoint- 
ment. 

He  left  Yarner,  and  proceeded  at  once  with  the  steps 
necessary  to  the  arrest  of  Timothy  Snow.  He  had  made 
it  clear  in  his  letter  to  Audrey  that,  whatever  might  be 
her  wish,  her  will  was  powerless  to  assist  Timothy  since 
he  would  be  under  a  pair  of  secret  eyes  from  the  mo- 
ment she  received  the  letter.  It  was  not  true,  but  he 
knew  that  Audrey  would  believe  it.  He  found  time  to 
wonder  how  she  could  have  done  this  cold-blooded 
thing. 

Before  ten  o'clock  Aloyle  called  with  other  police  at  the 
house  by  the  lich-gate  to  arrest  Snow.  An  inspector  was 
spokesman,  and  the  other  officers  kept  behind  him.  Tim- 
othy's mother  came  to  the  door,  and  the  policeman  asked 
whether  her  son  was  at  home.     She  answered  that  he  had 


Z22  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

gone  to  "  The  Coach  and  Horses,"  to  meet  a  house-agent 
by  appointment.  Whereupon  he  left  immediately  and 
proceeded  to  the  inn. 


CHAPTER  X 

Upon  this  night  —  one  destined  to  be  historical  in  the 
brief  annals  of  Ilsington  —  old  Jacob  Redstone  and  his 
grandson  called  at  "  The  Coach  and  Horses."  Jacob 
was  come  from  Dury  to  spend  a  day  or  two  with  Dru- 
silla  and  John  at  Yarner ;  he  had  been  among  old 
friends  during  the  afternoon,  and  he  sat  now  in  the  pub- 
lic bar  with  John  beside  him.  Thomas  Turtle,  the  car- 
rier, was  also  there,  and  Saul  Butt,  the  woodman.  But 
it  was  Seth  Campion  from  Middlecot  who  brought  the 
news.  He  came  to  see  Jacob,  and  then  announced  a 
mystery. 

"  A  proper  come-along-of-it,  souls !  My  people  be  tear- 
ing their  hair  out,  you  might  almost  say,  for  our  girl  — 
Miss  Audrey  —  she's  gone  —  clean  gone!  A  fly-by- 
night  sort  of  thing,  seemingly,  for  she  weren't  in  the 
house  when  we  roused  this  morning,  and  she  never  un- 
rayed  last  night,  they  say.  Her  bed  wasn't  slept  in  nor 
nothing.  And  her  gert  dog,  by  the  name  of  '  Battle,'  be 
yowling  for  her  something  cruel." 

They  bade  him  give  the  details  in  order,  and  by  dint  of 
cross-questioning  learned  the  facts. 

"  Us  have  kept  it  quiet  all  day  for  fear  of  scandal,  and 
for  hope  she'd  come  back  any  minute :  but  it  can't  be 
kept  quiet  no  more,  and  there'll  be  search  to-morrow  if 
nought's  heard  in  the  morning.  I  doubt  she's  all  right, 
because  she's  the  sort  that  knows  mighty  well  how  to 
take  care  of  herself,  but  of  course  her  mother  thinks  she's 
come  to  grief.  You  see,  as  I  said  to  Mr.  Leaman,  'tisn't 
as  if  her  had  gone  out  for  a  walk,  or  what  not,  and 
never  come  back  —  then  you  might  have  thought  that 
trouble  had  overtook  her.  But  she  slips  away  after  us 
all  be  asleep.     She  goes  to  somebody  without  a  doubt  — 

322 


324  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

a  man,  for  sartain.  So  I  tell  'em  to  possess  their  souls 
ill  patience  and  wait  to  hear  the  news  and  hope  for  the 
best." 

John  Redstone  spoke. 

"  I'll  lay  my  life  she's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  She's  as 
sensible  as  she's  fine.  She  won't  give  herself  away.  She 
was  always  for  mysteries  and  plots  and  all  that.  Per- 
haps Timothy  Snow  knows  a  bit  about  it." 

"  No,  he  don't,  because  I  met  him  an  hour  ago  and 
asked  him.  If  she'd  took  a  fancy  there,  or  if  he'd  liked 
her,  there  wouldn't  have  been  no  occasion  for  all  these 
May  games." 

"  She  must  be  ofif  to  get  a  bit  of  joy,"  declared  Ned 
Blackaller  from  behind  the  bar.  "  She's  one  of  them 
high-spirited  creatures  brimming  with  health  and  hanker- 
ing for  a  pinch  of  salt  in  her  life.  She'll  turn  up  again 
after  her  adventure,  very  like  —  none  the  worse,  we'll 
hope." 

"  She's  the  sort  to  marry  in  secret  to  make  it  better 
fun,"  said  John  Redstone.  "  I've  often  wondered  how 
she  could  stick  this  place  —  she's  too  free  and  large- 
minded  to  bide  here." 

'*  Perchance  some  other  body  have  told  her  so,"  sug- 
gested the  carrier.  "  Them  flighty  girls  be  very  ready  to 
lend  a  ear  to  the  tempter.  There's  a  danger  when  such 
good  looks  as  hers  be  linked  to  a  light  nature.  She 
may  yet  bring  her  mother's  grey  hairs  with  sorrow  to  the 
grave." 

"  Not  her,"  answered  John.  "  She's  wideawake  and 
full  of  cleverness.  She'll  astonish  you  all  some  day,  and 
very  like  that  day's  to-morrow.  Maybe  the  next  thing 
you  hear  will  be  the  wonderfullest  news  that  you  old 
blades  ever  did  hear." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  knowed  something?" 

Mr.  Blackaller  spoke,  but  Redstone  only  shook  his 
head  and  laughed. 

"  I  may,  or  I  may  not ;  but  I  know  her,  and  I  know 
she's  all  right,  and  you  can  tell  her  mother  that  much,  so 
that  she  may  sleep  in  peace." 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  325 

They  clamoured  to  learn  more,  but  John  refused  to 
speak  further ;  indeed,  he  denied  any  exact  knowledge. 
Then  they  criticised  Audrey,  and  some,  including  Thomas 
Turtle,  spoke  harshly  of  her  nature.  Redstone  and  his 
grandfather  took  her  part.  Talk  finally  drifted  from 
Willes  Leaman's  daughter  to  the  general  question  of  the 
duty  of  the  child  and  the  Fifth  Commandment  of  the 
decalogue. 

"  There's  no  honour  now  —  not  between  the  young 
and  their  parents.  They  don't  honour  their  fathers  and 
mothers  no  more,  and  so  their  days  won't  be  long  in  the 
land,"  declared  Mr.  Turtle.  "  You'll  bear  me  out,  Jacob 
Redstone,  that  when  we  was  young,  we  thought  a  lot 
more  of  the  grown-up  folk  than  the  rising  generation 
do." 

"  I  grant  it,"  said  Jacob.  "  The  young  look  to  the 
young  now  for  their  wisdom  and  pleasure  and  all.  Times 
be  changed,  and  I'm  afeard  that  the  Ten  Commandments 
don't  strike  fear  to  the  soul  like  they  did  when  Moses 
fetched  'em  down  flame-new  from  the  Mount." 

"  They'm  played  out,"  said  the  woodman. 

"  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  answered  Blackaller.  "  They 
ban't  played  out  ezacally,  but  they  be  taken  in  an  easier 
spirit  —  some  of  'em.  There's  a  great  vartue  in  the 
Commandments  still,  for  they  are  like  these  here  new 
ships  built  in  compartments:  you  can  break  one  now 
and  again  without  sinking.  And  law  and  order  being 
fetched  up  to  such  a  pitch,  as  they  are  nowadays,  there's 
only  a  few  of  'em  we  be  tempted  to  break." 

"  For  my  part,"  declared  old  Redstone,  "  there's  only 
two  or  three  at  most  as  ever  I  was  tempted  to  break,  even 
in  my  young  and  fiery  days." 

John  laughed. 

"  Well  done  you,  grandfather!  "  he  said. 

"And  which  might  they  be,  Jacob?"  enquired  Seth 
Campion.  "  'Twould  be  a  very  interesting  item  to  know 
which  of  'em  you  scatted." 

Timothy  Snow  entered  the  bar  at  this  moment  and 
asked  for  a  stranger.     His  advent  silenced  conversation. 


326  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

then,  since  none  had  yet  come  for  him,  he  asked  what 
they  had  been  discussing. 

"  The  Ten  Commandments,"  answered  John ;  "  and  my 
old  man  was  just  going  to  tell  us  which  he'd  broke  in  his 
youth  —  wasn't  you,  grandfather  ?  " 

"  No,  I  wasn't,"  answered  Jacob.  "  I  ban't  going  to 
tell  none  of  my  secrets  to  you  rash,  chattering  chaps. 
All  I'll  say  is,  they  wasn't  what  I  call  policeman  com- 
mandments." 

"  Why,  you  can  smash  all  of  'em,  if  you'm  clever 
enough,"  declared  Saul  Butt. 

"  But  in  some  cases  you'll  have  to  suffer  in  this  world 
if  you'm  catched  out  doing  so ;  and  they  be  the  police- 
man commandments,"  explained  Jacob. 

"  T'others  have  no  law  to  back  'em,"  said  Butt,  "  and 
they  be  broken  every  day  —  by  me  and  everybody." 

"  Which  do  you  break  daily,  then  ?  "  asked  Turtle. 

"  Which  I  break  and  which  I  don't  be  my  business," 
replied  the  woodman,  "  and  no  more  to  be  told  than  the 
money  I  earn  or  any  other  private  item." 

"  Which  you  break  be  the  Lord's  business,  as  you'll 
find  some  day,"  answered  Turtle.  "  He  made  the  Com- 
mandments, and  they'm  so  good  now  as  ever  they  was, 
like  all  His  works,  and  we  can't  say  which  be  worst  to 
break  in  the  Lord's  eye.  And  when  it  comes  to  the  Last 
Day,  you'll  find  they'm  all  '  policeman  commandments,' 
as  Jacob  calls  'em." 

"  You  think  'twill  be  as  bad  not  to  honour  your  father 
and  mother  as  to  commit  murder  —  eh,  Thomas?  "  asked 
Timothy  Snow. 

"  I  don't  know,"  answered  Turtle.  "  It  may  be.  We 
can't  read  the  mind  of  the  Lord.  'Tis  very  like,  for  in- 
stance, seeing  the  store  He've  always  set  on  His  own 
Day,  that  it  may  be  just  so  bad  to  make  it  a  holiday  as 
we  do  now,  as  it  is  to  take  what  don't  belong  to  us.  They 
be  a  sharp  challenge  to  human  nature  or  they  wouldn't 
be  broke  so  oft.  I  lay  there's  not  a  man  in  this  bar 
haven't  broke  one  or  other." 

"  And  not  a  man  in  this  bar  God  haven't  forgived  for 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  327 

doing  so,'*  said  Jacob.  "  We  don't  dwell  enough  upon 
that,  in  my  opinion.  'Tis  a  great  luxury  to  forgive  them 
that  wrong  you,  and  that's  about  the  only  real  piece  of 
fun  our  Maker  hath.  No  doubt  He  be  planning  many 
a  surprise  for  us  worms,  when  we  come  wriggling  up 
out  of  the  earth  into  the  light  of  His  countenance." 

"  He  surprises  us  in  this  world  quite  enough  —  them 
that  believe  in  Him.  We  don't  want  any  more  of  His 
surprises,  surely  ?  "  said  Snow. 

"  Suppose  the  people  went  about  saying  they  didn't  be- 
lieve in  you,  Timothy  Snow,"  argued  Jacob  Redstone. 

"  That's  a  very  different  thing,"  answered  his  grand- 
son. "  Here's  a  man  staring  us  in  the  face.  We  must 
believe  in  him." 

"  And  don't  God  stare  everybody  in  the  face  ?  "  asked 
Jacob.  "  Wouldn't  the  sparrow  fall  to  the  ground  if  He 
forgot  the  way  of  its  little  wings?  If  God  misremera- 
bered  the  world  for  one  instant  moment  —  why  —  only 
He  knows  what  would  overtake  it." 

"  And  the  wonder  is  He  don't,"  continued  Tom  Turtle. 
"  The  wonder  is  He  don't  turn  His  back  on  it  once  for 
all  —  such  an  ungrateful  mess  of  a  place  as  'tis." 

"  He'm  too  kind  for  that,"  declared  Jacob.  "  Instead 
of  letting  it  slide  down  the  hill  for  good.  He  must  needs 
show  His  Almighty  pluck  and  patience  and  go  on  work- 
ing at  us  and  patching  and  mending  and  tinkering  and 
worrying  to  get  us  on  to  the  right  way  in  spite  of  our- 
selves." 

Timothy  laughed. 

"  He's  a  botcher  on  your  own  showing  then,  gaffer. 
If  He  had  been  all-powerful  and  all-kind,  wouldn't  He 
have  turned  us  out  like  the  angels  to  begin  with?  But 
we're  uneven,  unfinished  things,  at  the  mercy  of  chance 
and  the  elements.  Our  bodies  can  be  tormented  at  any 
moment  by  germs  and  foul  poisons  in  the  earth  and  the 
air  and  the  water:  and  our  souls  can  be  tormented  by 
things  fouler  than  earth,  air,  or  water  —  the  beastly 
germs  that  get  into  our  minds  and  breed  and  rot  there." 
"  From  the  womb  to  the  grave,  we  be  unfinished  crea- 


328  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

tures  —  that's  a  good  word,"  said  Ned  Blackaller  — "  a 
good  and  a  true  word,  and  you  can't  deny  it,  Jacob." 

"  Why,  a  bird  hatched  out  of  an  egg  has  more  sense 
than  a  baby,"  declared  John  Redstone.  "  A  human  child 
is  the  foolishest  young  thing  in  the  world  —  and  a  human 
ancient  runs  a  very  good  second  to  him,  so  you'd  best 
come  home,  my  old  dear,  afore  Timothy  here  makes  you 
look  silly." 

"  He  won't  do  that,"  answered  Jacob.  "  There's  new 
knowledge  and  there's  old,  and  I'm  not  arguing  against 
the  new :  I'm  only  saying  the  old  be  good  enough  for  me. 
We  can't  believe  anything  away  from  faith,  and  faith  says 
'tis  blessed  to  believe  without  understanding.  You  have 
faith,  or  yxDU  have  it  not.  But  since  the  brain  is  a  weak 
member  at  best,  I'd  wish  all  might  have  faith  over  and 
above  their  reason,  if  'twas  only  for  their  own  happiness 
and  content.  We  don't  live  long  enough  to  get  properly 
wise." 

"  No  more  we  do,"  said  Snow  ;  "  and  we  be  planned  on 
such  a  poor  pattern  that  even  the  brains  we  have  got 
give  out  afore  our  bodies." 

"  And  that's  what  they'll  say  have  happened  to  you, 
grandfather.  So  you  and  me  had  best  trot  off,"  said 
John. 

"  'Tis  true  that  a  man's  wits  fail  him,  just  when  he's 
got  the  experience  of  life  behind  him,  and  could  serve 
the  world  best,"  admitted  Blackaller,  "  and  there's  more 
to  know  every  day,  and  no  more  brain-power  for  it. 
Knowledge  increases,  as  you  can  see  in  every  newspaper 
you  open,  but  the  mind  of  man  don't  get  larger,  and  there's 
no  more  brain  room.  So  knowledge  runs  over,  and  men 
go  to  the  asylum." 

"  That's  our  pride,  Ned,"  said  Jacob,  as  John  helped 
him  into  his  coat.  "  That's  our  human  pride.  What  we 
need  know,  the  Lord  made  room  for ;  and  there's  plenty 
of  room  for  all  that  matters  to  turn  round  in  the  brain 
and  settle  dowm  there.  But  if,  like  these  rash  and  reckless 
chaps  here,  we  go  trespassing  after  knowledge  and  don't 
mind  the  notice-boards,  then  we  must  face  the  conse- 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  329 

quences.  Faith  a  man  must  have  afore  he  can  get  into 
Heaven,  and  there'll  be  a  lot  as  will  have  to  cool  their 
heels  a  cruel  long  time,  and  sit  outside  and  see  the  little 
childer  go  in  afore  them." 

John  chaffed,  and  Timothy  argued ;  then  the  Red- 
stones  departed,  and  Seth  Campion  brought  the  subject 
back  to  Audrey  Leaman.  Snow  had  heard  nothing  of 
her  disappearance  and  was  interested. 

"  That  red,  young  Redstone  knowed  more  than  he'd 
say,  I  believe,"  declared  Blackaller.  "If  she's  up  to  any 
mischief,  she  might  have  relied  upon  him  to  help,  know- 
ing his  nature." 

"  'Twas  always  thought  that  policeman  Moyle  was  her 
friend,"  answered  Campion.  "  But  'tis  very  clear,  seem- 
ingly, that  he  knew  nought  of  this,  for  a  letter  corned 
by  post  for  her  this  morning,  and  the  writing  was  his  — 
it  being  very  well  known  to  my  master  through  Moyle 
witnessing  many  a  document  for  him.  And  there  the 
letter  bides  on  the  mantelshelf  over  the  kitchen  fire.  So 
'tis  easily  seen  he  knew  nought." 

"  If  another  Ilsington  person  be  spirited  ofif  and  never 
heard  of  no  more,  "twill  look  as  if  the  devil  was  in  it," 
said  Saul  Butt. 

Then  a  house-agent  arrived  to  see  Timothy  Snow,  and 
they  were  about  to  leave  the  inn  together  when  four 
men  suddenly  entered. 

The  local  inspector  of  police  came  first,  and  after  him 
followed  Frederick  Aloyle  and  two  other  constables.  To 
Snow  they  came,  and  Timothy  heard  the  usual  formula. 
He  was  arrested  for  the  murder  of  his  uncle,  and  warned 
that  anything  he  might  say  would  be  used  against  him. 

The  man  staggered  a  moment,  then  he  braced  him- 
self and  held  out  his  hands. 

"  If  I'm  suspected,  I  shall  be  only  too  anxious  to  clear 
myself,"  he  answered. 

When  he  was  gone  Thomas  Turtle  improved  the  hour. 
He  trembled  with  excitement  and  fierce  gratification. 

"  That's  what  your  atheists  come  to!  "  lie  cried.  "  The 
wretch  denied  God  afore  us  assembled.     Well  he  might; 


330  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  we,  who  have  heard  him  speak,  know  without  any 
more  proof  that  he's  guilty.  No  doubt  he'd  like  to 
think  there  wasn't  no  God,  and  no  awakening  beyond  the 
grave!  But  there's  a  rough  awakening  at  hand  for  him; 
and  we  faithful  people  can  thank  God  that  it  is  so.  'Tis 
only  the  sinner  finds  God  a  puzzle ;  His  ways  be  clear 
enough  to  the  like  of  us.  And  I'll  take  my  oath  the 
man's  got  a  hundred  other  crimes  to  his  name  —  a  sly, 
silent,  shifty  creature  always.  And  now  he's  struck 
down  with  his  stolen  food  in  his  mouth  and  the  blood  on 
his  hand ;  and  we  faithful  men  can  give  the  praise  to  the 
long-suffering  God." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Ilsington  was  seething,  like  a  nest  of  ants  into  which 
some  wanton  boy  has  thrust  a  stick.  Violent  interest 
and  frantic  dismay  clashed  at  every  street  corner.  The 
people  ran  here  and  there  and  forgot  their  business.  The 
women  stood  about  the  cottage  doors  together ;  the  men 
filled  the  inns.  Spendthrift  chance,  not  content  with  one 
incident  of  a  size  to  convulse  the  neighbourhood,  exploded 
two  simultaneously,  and  a  rumour  ran  that  there  was 
some  mysterious  connection  between  the  disappearance  of 
Audrey  Leaman  and  the  arrest  of  Timothy  Snow.  In- 
deed, a  thousand  tales  inaccurate  and  grotesque  took  wing, 
and  certain  journalists,  who  sprang  upon  the  place  with 
the  return  of  day,  found  it  hard  to  build  a  coherent  story 
from  the  tissue  of  rumour. 

Men  bore  false  witness,  not  of  purpose  but  because 
their  small  minds  were  overthrown  by  the  sudden  shock 
and  its  complexities. 

At  daybreak  on  the  morning  that  followed  Snow's  ar- 
rest, John  Redstone  walked  with  his  grandfather  to  the 
Moor  edge  above  Ilsington,  that  the  old  man  might  meet 
Thomas  Turtle,  the  carrier,  and  travel  with  him  home- 
ward, for  Jacob  was  returning  to  Dury  in  Turtle's  van. 

"  You  took  me  from  the  fray  just  when  I  was  getting 
warm  for  it,"  said  John's  grandfather.  "  I  was  calling 
up  my  opinions,  and  I'd  have  made  a  valiant  fight  against 
you  and  Ned  and  that  chap,  Timothy  Snow,  if  you'd  let 
me  bide." 

John,  who  carried  the  other's  carpet  bag,  laughed  at 
this,  and,  knowing  not  of  the  events  that  followed  their 
departure  from  "  The  Coach  and  Horses,"  they  conversed 
on  milder  matters  and  their  own  concerns. 

"  'Tis  a  grateful  thing  to  see  you  and  her  so  happy  and 

331 


332  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

content,"  said  Jacob,  "  You  lost  her  and  suffered  a 
lot,  and  then  you  saved  her  life,  and  so  the  watching 
Lord,  Who  meant  her  for  you  all  along,  brought  her  to 
you  in  His  own  time.  And  a  man  and  woman  closer 
in  heart  and  soul  I  can't  call  to  mind.  But  don't  forget 
to  be  thankful,  Johnny.  Us  ought  to  judge  of  people 
by  themselves  and  their  behaviour,  not  by  what  other 
people  say  of  'em  —  for  or  against.  I've  heard  you  say 
that  very  thing.  Then  you  ought  to  judge  of  God,  like 
you'd  judge  of  anybody  else,  by  the  way  He  treats  you. 
And  you  certainly  did  ought  to  be  grateful." 

"  Not  I  —  'tis  all  chance,  and  our  luck  depends  on  deaf 
and  blind  things  that  ban't  interested  in  us.  You  heard 
what  Timothy  said." 

"  There's  another !  It  do  pass  the  wit  of  man  to  know 
why  the  poor  and  the  persecuted  cleave  to  their  God 
through  thick  and  thin,  and  the  rich  and  the  prosperous 
and  the  fortunate  throw  Him  over  without  a  blush.  If 
there's  two  men  living  that  ought  to  be  on  the  Lord's  side, 
'tis  you  and  Timothy ;  and  yet  you  stood  there  and  backed 
each  other  up.  'Tis  a  great  trouble  to  me,  and  I  hope 
you  won't  be  smote  for  it." 

"  Don't  you  be  frightened."  answered  his  grandson, 
"  we're  all  right ;  and  if  there's  a  God  as  be  wishful  for 
me  and  Timothy  to  believe  in  Him,  no  doubt  He'll  bring 
it  about  and  make  us." 

Turtle's  hooded  cart  was  waiting  for  them,  and  Thomas 
enjoyed  the  rich  pleasure  of  telling  them  the  news.  He 
narrated  the  main  incident  briefly,  and  then  continued. 

"  Such  a  proper  terrible  come-along-of-it  have  never 
burst  over  Ilsington  since  I  was  a  boy.  Took  him  under 
our  very  eyes !  I  can  hear  inspector  lock  the  handcuffs 
this  minute.  Grim  as  a  ghost  was  Snow.  Dazed  like, 
but  swore  he  was  innocent,  so  I'm  told,  after  he  left  the 
public  house.  A  masterpiece  of  wickedness  if  'tis  true ; 
and  only  too  sure  to  be,  when  you  think  of  the  awful 
opinions  of  the  man.  And  Audrey  Leaman  gone,  and 
some  have  a  dark  feeling  that  he  may  be  responsible. 
And  old  Sibella  Snow  very  near  died  last  night  —  'twas 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  333 

all  the  doctor  could  do  to  keep  her  pulse  moving.  She 
was  crying  out  all  night,  so  ^^Irs.  Maine,  the  nurse,  tells 
me,  for  I  passed  her  at  the  door  going  home  to  her  own 
house  to  look  after  her  husband's  breakfast.  And  Sibella 
cried  out  all  through  the  long  night  hours,  *  Now  he'll  lie 
in  his  grave  —  now  he'll  lie  in  his  grave  at  last ! '  Mean- 
ing her  brother  Lot,  for  she  was  always  terrible  vexed 
as  his  bones  didn't  rest  along  with  the  family,  under  her 
chicket  window  as  overlooks  the  churchyard.  But  so  it 
is,  for  policeman  IMoyle  have  nosed  out  the  poor  wretch's 
carcase  in  Yarner  Woods,  and  to-day  they  be  going  — 
they  may  have  started  by  now  —  to  fetch  him  up  out  of 
the  pit,  and  sit  upon  him  in  due  course.  Now  I  must 
get  on,  and  let  it  be  known  far  and  wide  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

Jacob  had  climbed  beside  Mr.  Turtle  during  this  nar- 
rative, and  John  went  to  the  back  of  the  cart  with  Mr. 
Redstone's  carpet  bag,  after  he  had  helped  his  grand- 
father up.  They  called  to  him,  but  found  that  he  had 
gone.  The  luggage  was  in  the  cart,  and  Turtle  proceeded 
for  Widecombe  and  Postbridge. 

"  As  keeper,  no  doubt  your  grandson  will  want  to  have 
a  hand  in  it,"  said  Mr.  Turtle.  "  'Twill  take  the  police- 
men all  their  time  to  keep  the  people  out  of  Yarner  this 
morning.  And  Frederick  Moyle  be  the  hero  of  the  hour. 
Us  shall  hear  more  to-night,  no  doubt,  and  the  newspapers 
will  ring  with  it  come  to-morrow.  We  live  in  stirring 
times.  I  be  ten  year  younger  this  morning,  along  of  such 
desperate  doings." 

John  Redstone  had  departed,  stunned  at  the  crash  of 
this  tremendous  event.  His  first  thought  was  to  get 
back  to  Drusilla,  but  for  a  while  she  took  second  place 
in  his  mind.  A  natural  instinct  towards  self-preserva- 
tion dominated  him  and  surged  through  him  like  a  flood. 
Strange  physical  effects  followed  upon  this  psychical 
experience.  The  blood  ran  into  his  head  and  his  sight 
was  dimmed.  He  sat  down  on  a  stone  and  gasped,  and 
felt  his  heart  throbbing.     He  sucked  in  the  air  with  huge 


334  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

suspirations,  and  presently  found  his  body  calmer.  He 
regained  self-control,  only  to  lose  it  again  when  the  full 
significance  of  what  had  happened  swept  through  his 
brain.  Twice  this  occurred.  Then  it  seemed  that  the 
man's  understanding  had  digested  the  catastrophe.  He 
was  able  to  cope  with  it  and  look  ahead. 

But  he  did  nothing  in  a  hurry,  for  the  will  to  live  ran 
high  in  him,  and  much  remained  to  know  before  any  defi- 
nite deed  was  called  for.  During  a  whole  hour  he  sat  as 
still  as  the  stone  beneath  him,  then  a  little  order  came 
into  his  mind.  He  remembered  a  thing  he  had  meant 
to  do  that  morning,  and  set  out  to  do  it. 

It  happened  that  Redstone  was  in  the  secret  of  Audrey 
Leaman  and  another.  Knowing  him,  she  had  trusted 
him,  and  he  had  been  of  very  practical  service  in  helping 
her  to  leave  her  home.  His  sympathies  were  entirely  with 
the  step  she  had  taken ;  but  since  she  was  now  safe  and 
her  adventure  complete  and  beyond  opposition,  he  had 
meant  to  call  at  Middlecot  before  his  morning's  work 
began  and  set  at  rest  the  mind  of  Audrey's  mother.  He 
lit  his  pipe  presently  and  walked  down  to  Ilsington. 

The  post  had  just  arrived  when  Redstone  reached 
Middlecot,  and  there  was  a  letter  from  Audrey.  It  told 
her  parents  what  John  knew  already,  that  she  was  in 
London  and  would  be  married  that  morning.  She  prom- 
ised to  write  full  particulars  in  a  day  or  two,  but  sent 
no  address. 

Redstone  added  nothing  to  the  news,  and  said,  when 
asked  the  reason  of  his  call,  that  he  was  only  there  to 
hear  if  all  was  well  with  the  daughter  of  the  house. 

He  left  Ilsington  and  overtook  a  dozen  men  journeying 
to  Yarner.  A  body  of  police  with  certain  labourers  had 
started  for  the  old  mine,  and  they  were  led  by  Moyle. 
A  cart  accompanied  them,  and  in  the  cart  was  a  great 
coffin  and  ropes. 

Accustomed  for  long  months  to  regard  himself  as  out- 
side the  tragedy  of  Lot  Snow,  Redstone  experienced  no 
difficulties  at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings.  He  knew  an 
old  path  through  the  woods  where  a  vehicle  might  go, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  335 

and  he  undertook  to  lead  the  party  to  the  mine.  He 
walked  beside  Moyle,  and  heard  him  tell  of  his  discovery. 
Moyle  declared  that  it  had  happened  but  a  few  days  be- 
fore, and  that  then,  pursuing  a  secret  search  he  had  map- 
ped out  for  himself,  he  had  at  last  come  to  the  actual 
hiding-place  of  the  dead  and  found  the  corpse  most  care- 
fully concealed  under  a  heavy  pile  of  brushwood  and 
debris  from  the  mine.  Redstone's  mystification  was  real 
enough,  and  he  continued  to  move  as  in  a  dream.  His 
brain  played  him  tricks,  and  he  could  even  find  it  in  him 
to  doubt  how  far  he  was  implicated. 

He  led  the  party  to  the  spot  and  then  went  about  his 
business.  His  wife  was  to  be  at  Manaton  that  day,  and 
she  would  have  left  home  before  he  could  reach  her. 

He  felt  in  some  measure  thankful  that  the  news  must 
fall  upon  Drusilla  through  another,  and  that  she  must 
know  what  had  happened  before  they  met.  He  wondered 
for  a  time  how  she  would  receive  it,  and  began  terribly 
to  mourn  for  Drusilla's  coming  trial.  Indeed,  he  thought 
now  entirely  about  her,  and  not  until  the  day  was  far 
spent  did  he  return  to  his  own  future. 

Hidden  in  a  secluded  place,  where  the  water  ran  and 
the  pines  spread  their  flat  arms  over  it.  he  reclined  on  the 
dead  needles  of  the  foliage  and  weighed  the  whole  bear- 
vng  of  the  thing  that  had  happened. 

His  nature  was  not  built  to  consider  certain  courses  of 
action,  but  life  and  the  joy  of  life  cried  with  a  trumpet 
tongue,  and  for  a  long  time  the  need  for  any  farewell  to 
life  did  not  appear.  That  Snow  should  suffer  for  his 
crime  was  unthinkable,  but  there  were  many  other  possi- 
bilities. Timothy  might  be  able  to  prove  that  he  was 
far  from  the  place  and  innocent  of  any  hand  in  the  mat- 
ter. Now  Redstone  longed  to  see  Snow,  and  wondered 
whether  he  might  do  so.  Since  Snow  was  not  the 
murderer,  he  w^ould  surely  be  able  to  prove  that  he  was 
not.  For  a  time  his  mind  grew  hopeful,  but  then  it  be- 
came darker  as  he  weighed  the  chances.  Anon  it  bright- 
ened again  before  another  thought.  Somebody  had  cer- 
tainly concealed  the  dead,  and  it  was  possible  that  Snow 


336  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

had  done  so ;  but  his  reasons  for  doing  so  were  obvious. 
He  found  himself  suddenly  thrust  into  the  very  heart  of 
a  murder,  and  saw  the  peril  in  which  he  stood.  Instead, 
therefore,  of  proclaiming  the  deed,  he  took  pains  to  hide 
it  up  for  his  own  safety.  Thus  John  stumbled  on  the 
truth ;  yet  the  situation,  thus  cited,  appeared  so  improb- 
able that  even  the  sanguine  Redstone  felt  his  heart  sink 
again.  If  that  were  Snow's  defence,  none  could  be  ex- 
pected to  believe  him. 

Until  this  stage  in  his  reflections,  interest  and  excite- 
ment had  buoyed  up  Redstone's  mind ;  but  now  a  sort  of 
reaction  set  in,  and  he  began  to  grieve  very  terribly.  He 
wasted  no  sorrow  on  Snow,  understanding  that  Timothy 
was  safe,  and  would  presently  be  a  free  man  in  any  event, 
but  the  peril  in  which  he  found  himself,  and  the  necessity 
for  confession,  which  might  too  soon  arise,  cast  him 
down.  He  drank  the  cup  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  forest. 
Then  Drusilla,  dismissed  for  a  season,  rose  to  be  the 
dominant  figure  of  his  thoughts,  and  his  sorrow  for  him- 
self became  as  nothing  before  his  sorrow  for  her. 

His  impatient  nature,  roughly  galled  by  the  event  of 
the  day,  began  to  fret  and  pull  at  the  leash.  A  temper 
long  under  control  and  temporarily  tamed  by  joy,  woke 
and,  like  a  giant  refreshed,  overmastered  him.  The  need 
for  patience  and  self-possession  was  awful  to  him.  He 
felt  a  sudden  longing  to  have  done  with  it,  to  anticipate 
all  and  destroy  himself  at  that  instant.  He  knew  life 
would  not  be  possible  lived  thus.  He  grew  distraught  for 
a  little  while,  and  plunged  through  the  woods,  climbed 
the  hills,  and  wearied  his  body  with  exaggerated  toil  and 
motion. 

Then  he  sat  down  again  and  fingered  his  gun;  and 
then  he  stared  at  himself  from  the  outside  and  wondered 
at  himself.  A  thousand  things  might  happen.  He  felt 
himself  strong  enough  to  make  things  happen.  Yet 
slowly,  surely,  the  significance  of  this  supreme  thing  over- 
crowded his  courage.  Before  such  a  problem  as  this,  he 
was  weak.  The  herd  values  on  most  subjects  would  not 
have  held  him;  feeble  as  j;v),s:nners  they  must  have  been, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  337 

and  powerless  to  restrain  his  action,  or  wound  his  con- 
science in  the  "breaking ;  but  from  this  pass  there  was  no 
escape :  his  spirit  was  not  built  to  let  another  man  suffer 
for  him. 

There  stole  over  him  presently  an  utter  weariness  of 
mind.  His  thinking  parts  were  exhausted.  He  turned 
to  Drusilla,  knew  that  he  must  meet  her  very  soon,  and 
wondered  whether  she  would  come  to  meet  him.  He 
rose,  went  on  to  his  regular  beat  and  pursued  it,  that  if 
she  came  she  should  find  him. 

Some  order  had  settled  upon  his  thoughts  before  even- 
tide. He  meant  to  live  a  free  men,  if  possible;  he  also 
meant  to  relieve  Timothy  Snow  of  anxiety  at  the  earliest 
moment  it  could  be  done.  The  accused  man  must  learn 
that  he  was  safe ;  but  he  must  also  learn  that  Redstone  did 
not  intend  to  confess  unless  the  necessity  arose.  He 
clung  to  life  fiercely  now.  He  determined  to  live  "  double 
tides,"  as  sailors  watch  "  double  tides."  He  must  win 
everything  possible  out  of  life,  if  life  were  indeed  to  end. 
He  stood  uncrushed  in  the  threat  of  its  ending,  and  be- 
lieved that  he  possessed  energy  and  courage  to  seek  every- 
thing possible  from  all  that  might  be  left  of  it.  He  even 
debated  how  to  fill  the  days,  but  that  was  easily  answered. 
He  must  fill  them  with  Drusilla.  He  was  no  longer  sorry 
for  himself,  or  anybody  else,  at  this  juncture.  He  girt 
up  his  loins  to  do  all  that  might  be  done,  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  power  returned  to  him.  Here  was  a  great  hap- 
pening —  to  be  handled  greatly.  For  a  time  he  lost  sight 
of  the  truth,  because  his  weary  brain  could  retain  and 
focus  it  no  more.  His  mind-picture  grew  blurred ;  a 
mist  rose  up  between  him  and  the  reality  of  things.  He 
became  almost  cheerful  under  his  temporary  escape ;  and 
when  his  wife  approached  him  presently,  he  appeared  as 
one  mildly  under  the  influence  of  liquor. 


CHAPTER  XII 

He  stood  in  a  clearing  before  Drusilla  found  him,  and 
looked  up  at  a  sky  nobly  disposed  for  the  approaching 
pageant  of  sunset.  Much  tenuous  cloud  was  washed 
thinly  over  the  firmament,  and  its  delicate  gauzes,  tiung 
fanwise  out  like  a  mighty  tree  of  many  branches,  were 
spread  from  the  eye  of  the  west  wind  to  ascend  and 
ramify  thinly  over  the  lustrous  blue  of  evening.  Art 
could  not  have  set  a  snare  more  perfect  to  mesh  and 
tangle  the  sunset  light;  and  when  it  came,  branch  after 
branch  of  the  great  cloud  tree  was  fretted  with  rosy  gold, 
and  the  wide  sky  broke  into  a  glory  of  fiery  flowers,  that 
budded  and  bloomed  upon  the  purple  vapour.  Athwart 
this  vision  there  sped  long  shafts  of  burning  mist ;  while 
above,  at  the  zenith,  flying  clear  of  the  pageant  beneath, 
there  swept  a  host  of  little  cirri,  that  gleamed  together 
like  a  flock  of  doves,  all  chequered  pink  and  pearl. 

Aloft  the  hills  heaved  very  dark  against  the  splendour 
of  the  sky ;  but  Yarner  took  the  light  to  her  bosom,  and 
the  scattered  remnant  of  foliage  still  clinging  to  the 
bough  flashed  back  the  splendour  of  the  sunset.  The 
solitary  leaves  blazed  orange  and  cherry  and  scarlet 
against  the  sobriety  of  the  woodlands.  They  twinkled 
and  died  upon  the  twilight  as  the  sky  faded ;  and  then  the 
earth-gloom  rose  and  steeped  the  forest  and  spread  an 
indigo  darkness  under  the  regiments  of  the  trees. 

A  pallid  spot  presently  moved  towards  Redstone  where 
he  stood  in  the  clearing,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  Drusilla's 
white  apron.  He  waited  for  her,  and  she  hastened  when 
she  saw  him  and  flung  herself  speechless  into  his  arms. 
She  could  not  speak  when  they  came  together,  but  he 
understood  her  thought,  and  plunged  straight  into  their 
grief  without  preliminary. 

338 


THE  FOREST  OX  THE  HILL  339 

"  Them  precious  arms !  "  he  said.  "  They'd  keep  it 
away  if  they  could.  But  it  don't  depend  on  them. 
You've  heard  —  maybe  you've  heard  more  than  me.  If 
Snow  can  clear  himself,  well  and  good  —  if  he  can't  — " 

She  was  shivering  and  hysterical.  She  could  only 
cling  to  him  and  weep.     He  supported  her. 

"  Don't  think  I've  thrown  up  the  sponge,  or  anything 
like  that,"  he  said.  "  I've  thought  it  all  out  —  to  the 
very  dregs  —  and  I've  looked  at  the  dark  side  and  I've 
looked  at  the  bright  side.  I've  even  had  time  to  be  ter- 
rible interested  at  the  difference  betw^een  how  I  looked 
at  the  job  and  how  the  world  looks  at  it.  To  me  'twas 
no  more  than  shooting  a  carrion  crow.  I  wouldn't  have 
done  it  in  cold  blood,  I  daresay,  but  once  done  I  cared 
nought.  But  now  the  world  be  faced  with  the  deed,  and 
the  world's  up  in  arms." 

"  I've  thought  for  us  too,"  she  said.  "  I've  heard 
how  'twas,  and  since  you  left  the  man  in  one  place  and 
he  was  found  in  another,  you  can't  say  you  killed  him. 
'Tis  madness  and  only  killing  yourself  to  come  forward 
and  say  you  killed  him  when  you  don't  know  whether  you 
did  or  not." 

"  You  clever  thing!  Don't  fret  your  brains  like  that. 
Well  I  guess  how  busy  they've  been  for  me  —  but  —  no  — 
we've  got  to  face  it  out.  If  Snow  be  let  off,  then  we're 
all  right ;  if  he  ban't,  then  we're  all  wrong,  I'm  afeared. 
I  must  give  myself  up,  or  — " 

"  Never !  "  she  said.  "  That's  not  needful  however  it 
falls  out.  We  can  run  for  it.  We  can  write  all  the  facts 
and  make  it  so  plain  as  need  be  that  you  did  it ;  and  then 
we  can  go  and  —  Say  we  can,  say  we  can  do  some- 
thing like  that,  John !  " 

"  No,"  he  answered ;  "  if  we  was  to  get  clear,  they'd 
very  likely  not  believe  us,  and  do  for  Snow  just  the  same. 
There's  only  one  thing  going  to  get  us  out  of  this  fix, 
and  that  is  for  Timothy  to  prove  he  didn't  do  it.  And 
that's  how  we're  faced ;  and  the  first  thing,  if  I  have 
the  power,  is  to  see  the  man  and  set  his  agony  of  mind 
at  rest." 


340  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  Think  of  me  —  think  of  me !  "  she  cried.  "  Be  that 
man  or  any  man  more  than  me?  Ban't  I  first?  Don't 
you  see  that  if  you  die,  I  die?  I  won't  live  another  day 
—  God's  my  judge  —  if  you  be  going  to  die.  I  won't  — 
I—" 

"  Hush  —  hush !  "  he  said,  holding  her  closely.  "  Of 
course  I  think  of  you  first,  and  there's  going  to  be  no 
dying  —  nothing  like  that.  I've  thought  it  through  and 
through,  I  tell  you.  If  they  convict  Snow,  then  they'd 
hang  him  very  like,  because  it  would  be  a  bad  sort  of 
murder  if  he'd  done  it  and  kept  quiet  after.  But  when 
I  tell  'em  'twas  me,  and  I  say  how  I  left  him  for  dead 
under  my  blow  and  heard  he  had  disappeared  and  so  on, 
then,  so  like  as  not,  they  wouldn't  hang  me  at  all,  but 
only  shut  me  up  for  a  score  of  years  or  so.  But  we 
be  talking  ofT  book.  'Twill  be  time  enough  to  see  where 
we  stand  when  we  know  where  Snow  stands.  Tell  me 
all  you've  heard  about  it," 

She  had  heard  more  than  Redstone,  and  related  her 
news. 

"  I  met  Mr.  Kingdon  when  I  came  back  from  Manaton, 
and  he'd  been  up  at  Yarner  House,  where  everything  was 
known.  Sir  Percy  signed  the  warrant,  I  believe,  or  had 
to  do  with  it.  And  Timothy  has  confessed  to  some 
things  but  denied  others.  He's  said  he  was  innocent,  of 
course,  but  he  admitted  other  things.  'Twas  him  found 
his  uncle,  after  you'd  rode  ofif  with  me,  and,  fearing  to  be 
mixed  up  in  it,  he  hid  his  uncle.  He  grants  that ;  he  hid 
his  uncle  and  kept  silence,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to 
lead  the  pony  away  out  of  Yarner.  He  says  that,  whether 
it  sounds  like  truth  or  falsehood,  'tis  the  whole  truth  and 
nothing  less." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  her  husband.  "  The  truth  for  certain, 
yet  I  wish  to  God  he'd  kept  the  truth  to  himself,  for 
'twill  sound  terrible  like  a  lie  in  every  ear  but  yours  and 
mine.  He  makes  his  chance  of  escape  so  much  the 
smaller  by  telling  that  —  and  then  — " 

Redstone  was  much  cast  down  before  this  news,  and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  341 

(lid  not  speak  for  some  time.     Presently  he  uttered  an 
opinion. 

"  Timothy  drove  a  good  few  nails  into  my  coffin  when 
he  said  that." 

"  Don't  —  don't  —  for  God's  sake,  don't  think  such 
things !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh,  life  —  our  life !  —  It  can't  end 
—  it  can't  be  going  to  be  cut  off  now  it's  just  begun. 
The  thing  was  so  far  away  and  did  look  so  small  and  — " 

"  So  I  thought  and  felt,"  he  answered.  "  But  we're 
going  to  be  reminded  it  wasn't  small.  Come  home  — 
lean  on  my  arm.  Don't  you  fret.  I  ban't  going  to  leave 
you  if  it  can  be  prevented." 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  that  you  never  shall.  Where  you 
go,  I  go;  and  if  you've  got  to  die,  John,  then  you'll  do 
well  to  put  me  out  of  the  way  first,  for  I  don't  live  with- 
out you  —  never  for  a  moment.  I'm  hungry  for  the 
grave  a'ready,  and  so  sure  as  we're  parted,  I  die  of  it. 
You  know  me.  I've  been  near  enough  to  death  to  fear 
it  no  more;  I've  felt  the  worst  of  it." 

"  Bear  up  and  don't  talk  of  no  such  things.  I've  got 
a  thought  that  they'll  let  Timothy  off.  I  was  wrong  to 
say  his  words  will  look  like  lies.  No  man  would  invent 
such  a  tale  as  that.  'Tis  true,  and  he'll  make  it  good  — 
mark  me  —  he'll  make  it  good,  and  the  law  will  just 
give  him  a  pinch  belike  and  let  him  go.  Come  along  and 
dry  your  eyes  —  else  they'll  think  you  be  fretting  for  the 
man  and  love  him  still.  What  more  have  you  heard? 
But  we'll  get  home  and  have  a  cup  of  tea  afore  you  tell 
me.     I'm  that  leery  —  not  a  bite  all  day  have  I  had." 

"  Hold  me  —  hold  me  close,"  she  said.  "  God  knows 
how  I've  come  through  this  day  alive.  I've  cried  to  you 
in  the  woods  this  longful  time,  but  you  was  thinking  so 
deep  you  never  heard  me.  And  the  terrors  and  agonies ! 
The  past  was  a  play  to  this  real  thing.  O  my  Johnny, 
twice  I  heard  gunfire  in  the  woods,  and  twice  I 
thought  — " 

She  sobbed  and  clung  to  him  and  hindered  his  going. 
He  perceived  that  a  great  complication  and  added  diffi- 


342  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

culty  centred  in  Drusilla.  Her  nerve  was  broken.  He 
tried  to  soothe  her. 

"  Don't  you  think  silly  things  like  that.  We  under- 
stand each  other  as  never  man  and  woman  understood 
each  other  afore.  We'm  light  and  life  each  to  the  other, 
and  if  one  goes  out,  t'other  be  dimmed  likewise.-  We'll 
go  together,  Dru.  Don't  you  fret.  I  won't  leave  you 
behind  —  I  swear  that.  Trust  me.  We  be  one  for  life 
or  death.     You'll  share  —  everything." 

He  promised  more  than  he  had  any  intention  of  per- 
forming, but  she  took  comfort  from  his  words  and  en- 
deavoured to  control  herself.  The  necessity  to  do  so  was 
real,  for  many  people  moved  in  the  woods,  and  Yarner 
had  become  a  centre  of  fascination.  Not  only  was  the 
tragedy  on  every  lip,  but  there  had  fallen  out  another 
strange  and  startling  matter  directly  affecting  the  fortunes 
of  the  reigning  house. 

John  and  Drusilla  entered  their  home  unseen,  and  while 
she  prepared  food,  she  wearied  him  and  distracted  him 
with  many  tears.  Her  attitude  surprised  him,  for  he 
thought  she  would  have  been  firmer.  Then  he  remem- 
bered all  that  he  was  to  her,  and  forgave  her. 

He  affected  cheerfulness,  and  made  his  wife  listen  to 
him.  He  retraced  the  circumstances,  opened  his  mind 
and  let  Drusilla  see  nearly  to  the  bottom  of  it.  Some 
things  indeed  he  hid,  for  already  he  perceived  she  could 
not  go  all  the  way  that  he  might  have  to  go,  or  decide 
between  the  alternatives  with  which  he  must  swiftly  be 
faced. 

"  I'm  a  whole  man  —  not  half  one,"  he  said ;  "  I  know 
that,  because  I  look  round  and  see  what  a  lot  of  unfinished 
men  there  are  in  the  world.  Life  and  the  policeman 
comes  between  men  and  manhood.  'Tis  only  the  fearless 
or  desperate  can  act  as  if  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
policemen.  But  I  was  a  whole  man  when  I  rolled  over 
that  bullying,  blustering  brute  and  rid  the  world  of  a 
pest.  I  should  have  been  a  coward  to  stand  his  tongue 
more,  and  T  should  have  been  a  fool  to  blab  after.  And, 
as  to  conscience,  'twould  have  been  a  lot  more  on  my 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  343 

conscience  if  I  had  killed  a  fox.  That's  my  point  of 
view;  but  of  course  men  in  the  lump  don't  share  it,  and 
now  I'm  up  against  men  in  the  lump,  I  suppose.  There'll 
be  a  judge  and  jury,  and  not  one  among  'em  will  be  made 
of  the  stuff  that  could  rise  to  killing  a  man  single-handed 
like  I  did.  But  they'll  rise  to  kill  me  herded  together 
under  the  law.  .  .  .  I'm  not  the  sort  to  be  hanged,  nor 
yet  the  sort  to  mind  hanging,  neither.  .  .  .  And  yet  —  no 
—  a  human  cur  shan't  choke  me  for  money.  'Tis  a 
wonder  that  such  a  filthy  thing  as  a  hangman  can  be 
found,  come  to  think  of  it.  ,  .  .  There's  some  men  I'd 
let  hang  for  me,  Dru.  Yes,  there  are.  There's  some 
I'd  let  swing  for  me  and  not  trouble  about  —  worms  of 
men,  better  underground  than  on  it.  I  can  call  to  mind 
such,  and  they  might  go  and  no  loss.  But  not  him. 
Not  Timothy  Snow.  He  mustn't  peg  out  for  me.  He's 
strong  and  useful.  .  ,  .  'Twas  a  fright,  a  passing  terror 
no  doubt  made  him  do  what  he  did.  He  was  there  look- 
ing for  his  old  man,  and  he  had  just  had  a  devil  of  a 
row  with  him.  And  then  he  found  him  dead  with  his 
forehead  broke  in.  Then,  for  fear  of  getting  tangled 
into  it,  he  —  What  a  rum  thing  chance  is !  D'you  see 
who's  put  the  rope  round  Timothy's  neck  ?  Ha,  ha ! 
You  have  —  you  have,  you  poor  woman,  and  no  fault  of 
yours,  neither.  How  it  runs  out  every  way  —  the 
branches  of  it!  Tim  hears  that  old  Lot  separated  you 
from  him,  and  then  he  hopes  that  he  may  win  you  back 
yet.  That  makes  life  good  again,  and  so  he's  a  coward 
when  he  comes  to  the  corpse.  He  wants  so  terrible  bad 
to  live  and  prosper  and  get  you,  that  the  thought  of 
being  caught  up  in  this  trouble  frightens  him  out  of  his 
wits,  and  he  does  a  damned  silly  thing  —  for  love  of  you 
and  for  selfishness.  And  now  just  the  thing  he  did  to 
save  himself  have  caught  him  .  .  .  his  love  of  life  and 
hunger  for  you  have  caught  him !  And  his  days  will  be 
darkened  for  ever.  ...  If  news  could  get  to  the  ear 
of  the  dead,  old  Lot  will  go  to  his  grave  very  well  con- 
tent. He's  got  us  all  round  —  eh?  They  laugh  best 
who  laugh  last  —  living  or  dead  !  " 


344  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

She  had  little  to  say,  but  looked  at  him,  listened  and 
felt  her  nervous  energies  ebbing.  Redstone  seemed  hard 
—  even  to  her.  But  she  would  not  let  him  out  of  her 
sight.  She  became  hysterical  and  troubled  him.  Once 
he  was  harsh ;  then  he  expressed  sorrow  for  the  unkind 
word. 

With  darkness  he  went  out  and  said  he  was  going  to 
speak  with  other  men ;  but  he  did  not.  He  entered  the 
woods  alone  and  moved  under  the  trees  and  sought  to 
plan  the  future  fitly.  His  mind,  however,  was  too  weary 
for  sustained  reflection,  and  he  kept  beginning  and  break- 
ing ofif.  No  coherent  plan  of  action  opened  before  him. 
He  grasped  fitfully  at  details ;  then  even  they  evaded  him. 
He  found  himself  mentally  powerless,  and  grew  very  im- 
patient and  fretful.  His  stormy  temper  gained  strength 
as  his  mind  weakened.  His  old  hatred  of  detail  and  de- 
lay swept  him  forward.  He  longed  for  the  thing  to  be 
finished  and  the  future  determined.  His  emotions  at  one 
time  made  him  stand  still  and  pant  and  stare  up  at  the 
stars.  Death  he  felt  would  not  be  difficult  —  perhaps  not 
so  difficult  as  waiting.  His  own  case  was  clear  enough 
and  his  own  action  inevitable ;  but  there  was  Drusilla  and 
her  future  to  consider.  A  longing  to  return  to  her  sent 
him  homeward,  but  he  had  changed  again  before  he 
reached  the  door.  He  began  to  suspect  that  it  would  be 
better  if  he  grew  harsh  to  her.  He  might  have  a  part 
to  play  presently.  Something  told  him  to  begin  loosening 
the  bonds  between  him  and  his  wife  as  soon  as  possible. 
If  indeed  they  were  to  part,  the  quicker  he  prepared  a 
way  for  the  parting,  the  less  she  must  be  called  to  endure. 
For  he  had  no  mind  that  she  should  drink  of  his  cup. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Amos  Kingdon  fell  in  with  Redstone  on  the  following 
morning,  and  told  how  the  dust  of  Lot  Snow  had  been 
recovered  and  conveyed  to  llsington.  He  dwelt  with 
gusto  on  the  details,  then  proceeded  to  another  subject. 

"  'Tis  all  out  now  about  Audrey  Leaman.  My  stars ! 
what  a  girl !  To  play  fast  and  loose  with  everything  in 
a  pair  of  trousers  as  she  have  —  and  then !  They  was 
all  fish  for  her  net  —  little  scamp.  Married  and  single 
and  poor  and  rich,  she'd  please  'em  and  madden  'em  and 
laugh  at  'em.  A  bad  character,  and  Lord  knows  where 
she  came  from,  for  a  straighter  woman  than  her  mother 
or  a  harder  sort  of  man  than  her  father  you'll  not  meet. 
But  there  'tis  —  she's  married  a  gentleman  —  properly, 
lawfully  wedded,  though  only  afore  a  registrar.  'Tis 
done  for  all  time,  and  a  Champernowne,  if  you  please ! 
Nothing  less  than  a  Yarner  Champernowne  she's  aimed 
at !  Master  Eustace,  of  course  ;  and  I  hear  that  Sir  Percy 
had  her  photograph  by  post  yesterday,  and  propped  it  on 
the  toast-rack  while  he  took  his  breakfast.  He  ate  just 
as  usual  and  drank  just  as  usual  —  neither  more  nor  less. 
'Twas  the  footman  told  the  butler,  and  the  butler  told 
my  wife.  And  Tom  Blick,  the  footman,  stole  a  look  at 
the  picture,  of  course ;  and  he  says  that  the  girl  was  in 
lady's  clothes,  and  looked  properly  dazzling,  as  no  doubt 
she  does  so." 

Redstone  laughed. 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  Me  and  her  was  very  good 
friends,  and  long  ago  I  promised  to  serve  her  if  I  could, 
and  the  chance  came  a  few  nights  agone.  Lord !  what  a 
lot  have  fallen  out  since!  It  seems  as  if  'twas  years  ago, 
but  yet  only  a  few  nights.  I  helped  her  off,  and  he  met 
her  at  Exeter,  and  away  they  went,  no  doubt.  He's  a 
lucky  chap,  I  believe.     She's  going  to  school,  she  told  me ; 

345 


346  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

but  I  shouldn't  think  they'd  have  much  use  for  her  at  a 
girls'  school.  'Twill  be  lessons,  more  likely,  to  teach 
her  to  sing  and  behave  proper  among  the  upper  people. 
A  fine,  fearless  piece !  She  won't  want  much  teaching. 
The  men  will  always  bow  down  afore  her." 

"  'Tis  strange  to  think  that  you  and  me  may  live  to 
have  Willes  Leaman's  daughter  reign  over  us,"  said  Mr. 
Kingdon.  "  Major  Champernowne  hates  Yarner,  and 
he  won't  come  here  when  Sir  Percy  passes ;  but  the  young 
chap  likes  it  well.  And  so,  in  course  of  time,  no  doubt, 
he'll  be  here,  and  she'll  be  Lady  Champernowne !  And 
up  to  the  very  last  that  policeman,  Moyle,  was  after 
her.  By  the  same  token,  he's  got  into  trouble,  for  a 
letter  he  wrote  to  Audrey  was  opened  by  her  father  yes- 
terday —  and  he  handed  it  to  the  police." 

Kingdon  explained  the  facts,  and  Redstone  was  more 
interested  than  he  appeared  to  be.  Chance  for  once 
played  Nemesis  on  a  scale  of  human  values,  and  Mr. 
Moyle  reaped  an  unexpected  reward  for  his  action.  His 
letter  to  the  girl  made  it  clear  that  he  had  discovered  the 
murder  some  time  before  he  proclaimed  it,  and  that 
under  certain  circumstances  he  had  even  been  prepared 
to  conceal  the  crime.  Him,  therefore,  we  leave  a  police- 
man no  longer,  for  he  was  dismissed  the  force. 

Time  passed  and  the  position  became  defined.  Science 
proved  how  Lot  Snow  had  perished  from  a  blow  on  the 
temple  that  broke  his  skull ;  the  coroner's  jury  brought 
a  verdict  of  wilful  murder  against  persons  unknown,  and 
Timothy  Snow%  arrested  on  suspicion,  prepared  to  stand 
his  trial  for  the  murder  when  Christmas  was  past. 

He  was  in  prison  at  Exeter,  and  Redstone,  visiting  his 
lawyer  privately,  learned  that  it  would  be  possible  for  him 
to  have  an  interview  with  Snow. 

To  John's  impatient  spirit  the  long  ordeal  was  excru- 
ciating, and  he  knew  not  how  to  wait  until  trial  and  sen- 
tence determined  his  ultimate  action ;  but  no  little  had 
to  be  done  immediately,  and  his  first  purpose  was  to  re- 
lieve Snow's  mind  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Some- 
times a  wave  of  hope  overtook  him ;  more  often  he  felt 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  347 

that  the  end  was  inevitable,  and  lusted  to  hasten  it  and 
have  done.  The  strain  revealed  weakness  in  Drusilla  —  a 
sort  of  weakness  he  had  not  guessed  at.  He  found  it  im- 
possible longer  to  discuss  the  situation  with  her,  for  she 
had  lost  self-control,  and  was  of  no  more  service  or  sup- 
port to  him  than  a  child  had  been.  He  was  tender  and 
patient  with  her,  and  at  times  a  spirit  of  recklessness 
plunged  him  into  pleasure.  He  ate  and  drank,  feeling 
that  to-morrow  he  might  die.  His  hold  on  life  astonished 
himself.  He  was  in  his  prime,  bursting  with  vitality 
and  vigour.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  life  possessing 
greater  worth  for  any  man  than  it  possessed  for  him. 
But  he  saw  things  in  his  wife's  eyes  that  hurt  him.  He 
loved  her  no  less  that  she  could  count  all  the  world  as 
well  lost,  given  only  him ;  but  he  marvelled  that  his 
standards  of  justice  were  such  a  slight  matter  to  her 
weighed  in  the  balance  against  his  life  and  liberty.  She 
made  proposals.  She  suggested  that  he  should  leave  a 
full  account  with  Snow's  lawyer  and  then  depart.  She 
urged  that  they  should  go  at  once,  so  that  half  the  length 
of  the  world  might  hide  him  before  the  trial.  But  he 
was  not  built  so  to  act,  and  the  fact  that  he  did  not  put 
her  wishes  first  in  this  matter  puzzled  her.  She  would 
have  shut  her  eyes  to  the  danger  in  which  Snow  stood ; 
she  would  have  hidden  her  head  in  the  sand  —  to  blind  her 
senses  to  what  might  follow ;  and  this  attitude  Redstone 
could  not  comprehend  in  her.  But  that  he  could  not 
comprehend  it  made  Drusilla  frantic.  He  argued  ration- 
ally ;  he  explained  that  no  shadow  of  doubt  must  exist 
as  to  Snow's  ultimate  salvation ;  he  showed  her  how 
any  such  shadow  (though  he  and  she  were  hidden  at  the 
antipodes)  must  swiftly  find  them,  choke  them  and 
smother  them.  Life  in  such  a  shadow  must  prove  a 
physical  impossibility  for  him,  however  she  might  make 
shift  to  breathe  under  it.  He  toiled  to  reveal  his  point  of 
view,  and  performed  amazing  feats  of  patience  for  a  man 
so  constituted. 

In  course  of  time  he  reconciled  her  to  the  fact  that 
Snow  had  already  suffered  enough,  and  then  her  natural 


348  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

pessimism  had  free  vent.  She  grew  ill ;  she  slept  no 
more;  by  night  a  thousand  horrors  haunted  her.  She 
shattered  his  sleep,  stole  in  upon  the  silence  and  loneliness 
that  his  soul  craved  at  this  season,  added  dark  torments 
and  temptations  to  the  tragic  colour  of  his  days.  Cease- 
lessly he  strove  to  establish  her  in  reason  and  justice, 
that  she  might  face  the  future  and  make  her  prepara- 
tions on  a  sure  foundation. 

"  You  be  outside  it,  my  darling  woman,  remember 
that,"  he  said  vainly  again  and  again.  *'  The  thing  itself 
have  nought  to  do  with  you  one  way  or  another.  Suffer 
you  must,  but  you  can't  do  anything  more  than  be  brave." 

It  seemed  that  ages  passed  in  an  hour  at  this  season, 
but  in  reality  very  few  days  followed  the  inquest  before 
Redstone  visited  Snow  with  the  lawyer. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Redstone  had  informed  Snow's  legal  representative  that 
he  desired  to  make  an  important  and  private  communica- 
tion to  the  prisoner ;  and  he  had  also  told  the  lawyer  that 
what  he  had  to  say  was  not  for  him. 

"  'Tis  about  his  uncle,"  he  explained,  "  and  no  doubt, 
in  good  time,  he'll  tell  you  what  I  want  to  tell  him  if 
there's  any  need  for  you  to  hear  it ;  but  at  present  there 
is  not." 

They  visited  Timothy  together,  therefore,  and  the 
lawyer  purposely  spoke  with  the  warders,  that  Redstone 
might  escape  interruption  and  do  the  thing  he  had  come 
to  do. 

Snow  was  resigned.  He  had  told  the  exact  truth,  and 
those  destined  to  defend  him  were  not  sanguine  that  it 
would  be  accepted.  They  had,  indeed,  warned  him  that 
his  case  was  grave.  Secretly  they  believed  him  guilty. 
He  spent  his  time  in  thought,  for  his  private  theory  of 
the  crime  appeared  to  have  broken  down,  and  its  failure 
added  one  more  hue  of  darkness  to  the  situation  in 
which  he  found  himself.  For  a  time  he  had  expended 
utmost  energy  of  mind  upon  the  problem,  and  exhausted 
his  mental  powers  in  striving  to  strengthen  his  brief. 
But  now  imprisonment  and  anticipation  worked  their  in- 
evitable way,  sapped  his  hope,  harrowed  up  his  nerves, 
broke  down  his  strength  and  confidence,  reduced  him  to 
the  dead  level  of  all  who  find  themselves  in  a  like  situa- 
tion. He  lost  heart  as  the  days  passed  and  no  news 
reached  him.  He  was  concerned  chiefly  with  his  mother, 
for  there  he  knew  the  blow  must  fall  most  heavily. 
There  had  never  been  any  great  devotion  between  them, 
but  she  was  proud  of  him  in  her  unemotional  way,  and  he 
believed  that  this  charge  pushed  home  would  be  likely  to 
destroy  her  mind.     He  judged  by  himself,  for  he  felt 

349 


350  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

his  own  intellect  weakening  now.  There  came  over  him 
a  longing  to  be  through  with  it  for  good  or  evil.  He 
despised  himself  for  the  situation  in  which  he  found 
himself.  That  he  —  a  strong  man  and  one  above  the 
herd  of  men  in  every  way  —  that  he  should  now  lie 
here  at  the  mercy  of  the  herd  was  gall  to  him.  That  his 
single  folly  should  have  found  him  out  so  swiftly ;  that 
he  should  be  forced  to  confess  before  the  nation  of  his 
panic  terror  —  this  was  very  vile  to  him.  His  case  must 
be  bad  enough  if  he  was  believed  and  liberated ;  but  it 
seemed  probable  that  he  would  not  be  believed.  Man 
w^ould  doubtless  think  he  lied  and  so  destroy  him,  as  an 
evil  force  inimical  to  the  common  weal.  He  would  sink 
to  shameful  death  and  leave  a  hateful  memory.  The 
career  he  had  pictured  was  crumbling  into  this  ;  the  sword 
that  chance  had  placed  in  his  hand  —  it  would  be  chroni- 
cled that  he  had  murdered  an  old  man  to  secure  it. 

Snow  alternated  between  renewed  hope  and  fear. 
Then  life  sank  away  from  him,  its  interests  waned,  and 
he  found  himself  only  hungry  to  reach  the  end  of  this 
long-drawn  terror  and  have  done. 

When  he  and  Redstone  met,  therefore,  their  attitude 
to  the  future  was  very  similar.  Both  felt  the  necessary 
suspense  almost  beyond  their  endurance ;  both  yearned 
to  shorten  time  and  come  face  to  face  with  what  the 
future  still  held  concealed  from  them.  But  Redstone's 
advent  told  the  prisoner  all  that  he  needed  to  know.  It 
came  as  the  event  long  expected,  it  explained  everything ; 
it  showed  Snow's  secret  theory  of  his  uncle's  death  was 
the  true  one.  At  first  it  almost  restored  his  self- 
respect. 

For  he  had  long  identified  Redstone  with  the  catastro- 
phe. He  had  even  been  jealous  of  the  power  that  could 
stretch  a  man  dead  and  then  go  forward  indifferently, 
without  one  shadow  of  remorse.  He  had  arrived  at  a 
conclusion  very  near  the  truth ;  and  it  had  shamed  him 
not  a  little  to  reflect  upon  his  own  conduct  when  the 
blood  of  Lot  Snow  had  touched  his  feet.  But  life  is  life, 
and  all  the  lesser  emotions  were  swept  awav  for  a  while 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  351 

when  he  sat  dose  to  Redstone,  heard  the  confirmation 
of  his  suspicion  and  learned  that  he  was  safe. 

They  spoke  beyond  earshot  of  the  warders,  for  John's 
companion  engaged  them  in  conversation,  and  they  were 
just  men,  without  desire  to  increase  the  awful  difficulties 
under  which  the  prisoner  laboured.  Redstone  therefore 
spoke  freely,  and  explained  to  Snow  how  and  under  what 
conditions  he  had  struck  down  his  uncle,  how  he  had 
in  the  same  moment  found  Drusilla,  how,  while  he  had 
taken  one  life  he  had  saved  another. 

"  I  guessed  at  it,"  said  Timothy.  "  Why,  I  can't  tell, 
and  it  matters  nothing.  But  somehow  I  saw  you  do  this ; 
and  the  better  I've  known  you  since  I  came  home,  the 
surer  I  felt  you  could  have  done  it  without  suffering 
from  your  conscience  for  it.  And  I  didn't  blame  you, 
Redstone.  It  seemed  to  me  you'd  done  a  useful  thing, 
and  rid  the  world  of  a  worse  than  useless  man.  I  felt, 
as  no  doubt  you  felt  after  'twas  done,  that,  since  it  was 
done,  it  was  well.  I  understand  as  if  I'd  been  there.  He 
drove  you  frantic ;  you  struck,  and  it  was  all  over.  You 
couldn't  draw  back  the  blow.  And  I'll  be  as  frank  as 
you.  You've  heard  my  defence,  and  you  know  'tis  true. 
'Tis  worse  than  death  to  me  to  have  played  the  coward ; 
but  truth's  an  ugly  thing  oftener  than  not,  and  afore  that 
fallen  man,  seeing  the  nature  of  my  hopes  and  fears  at 
the  moment  when  I  found  him,  a  coward  I  was.  I'd 
change  places  with  you  gladly  —  God's  my  judge — for 
you've  been  brave,  anyway,  and  practised  what  I 
preached ;  but  now  —  now  how  stands  it  between  us  ?  " 

Redstone  listened.     Then  he  explained  his  wishes. 

"  The  law  don't  take  into  account  the  ins  and  outs  of 
a  thing,  and  you  can't  remove  the  biggest,  damned 
scoundrel  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  so  long  as  he  don't 
quarrel  with  the  laws.  But  I  did,  and  now  what  I  trou- 
bled nothing  about  have  rose  into  this.  Of  course  you're 
all  right  —  that  goes  without  my  telling  you.  But  there's 
others  to  be  thought  upon,  and  they  must  be  thought  upon. 
Of  course  I  mean  my  wife.  She  knows  the  truth.  But 
she's  wrapped  up  in  me  —  I'm  her  life  and  soul  —  and 


352  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

'tis  natural,  for  her  sake  as  well  as  my  own,  that  I  want 
to  make  a  fight  for  it  if  I  can.     You  see  that,  Timothy?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  see  more  than  that.  You  must  remember 
what  she  was  to  me  and  what  I  was  to  her.  I  tell  you 
this:  her  good  is  more  than  yours  or  mine  in  this  mat- 
ter." 

Redstone  was  moved. 

"  That's  a  fine  thing  to  say,"  he  answered,  "  and  I 
wish  very  much  it  was  true.  It  may  be  that  come  what 
will  her  good  will  happen.  The  best  that  could  fall  out 
is  that  you  should  be  found  innocent  and  let  off,  and  no 
more  said.  But,  failing  that,  'tis  not  her  good  or  any- 
body's good  —  one  more  than  another  —  that  must  be 
done.  There's  only  one  thing  can  be  done.  That's  my 
work,  none  else's.  I'm  here  now  to  ax  you  to  stand 
your  trial,  knowing  you  need  feel  no  fear  nor  terror  about 
it  any  longer.  I  ax  that  because  I  want  to  have  the 
chance  that's  left  of  escaping.  I  don't  intend  to  be  in  the 
same  fix  as  you  are ;  because  I  can't  get  out  of  it  like 
you  can.  So  I  offer  this,  and  ask  you,  as  a  favour,  to  try 
and  prove  the  truth  so  far  as  you  are  concerned.  The 
truth  be  often  far  harder  to  prove  than  a  lie,  and  so  it 
will  be  here.  But  your  lawyer  men  may  do  it.  And 
if  they  do,  I  breathe  again ;  and  if  they  don't  —  well,  'tis 
no  odds  for  you." 

Snow  listened.  His  secret  relief  was  enormous.  He 
could  with  difficulty  conceal  the  thankfulness  that  surged 
in  great  pulses  through  his  heart.  He  was  to  live  and  go 
free.  Imprisonment  became  a  jest.  To  see  the  judge 
don  the  black  cap  would  be  matter  for  laughter.  It  was 
only  by  fixing  his  mind  on  the  haggard  man  before  him 
that  he  could  preserve  decent  gravity.  The  shadows  of 
death  had  indeed  lifted  from  his  own  shoulders,  but  they 
were  darkening  the  face  of  the  other.  He  considered 
Drusilla,  and  instantly  grew  sober  enough. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  what  one  would  have 
expected  of  you.  And  my  only  wonder  was  that  I  hadn't 
heard  sooner.  Indeed,  I'd  come  lO  think  latterly  that  I 
must  be  wrong,  and  that  you  hadn't  done  it.     Now,  of 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  353 

course,  I'll  stand  my  trial  and  do  my  level  best  to  prove 
I'm  innocent.  And  I'll  say  more  when  I  think  upon  you 
and  her  —  your  wife.  'Tis  a  question  which  of  us  be  the 
more  useful  man  and  the  more  wanted.  Perhaps  I  ought 
to  say  'tis  no  question  —  feeling  what  I  feel  about  her." 

Redstone  reflected. 

*'  There's  a  lot  to  be  said  and  thought  about  that.  You 
was  fond  of  her,  and  that's  nothing;  but  she  was  fond 
of  you  —  and  that's  a  great  deal." 

"  You're  her  life  now,  however.  Those  are  your  own 
words.     So  far  as  I  can  see,  the  next  move's  with  me." 

Redstone  laughed.  There  was  the  old  ring  in  his  voice, 
for  his  laugh  came  from  the  lungs. 

"  Well,  we'll  leave  it  so  for  the  moment.  But  don't 
you  play  any  games  out  of  a  fancied  kindness  or  any- 
thing like  that ;  it  might  spoil  all.  You  go  through  with 
your  trial  first,  and  do  your  level  best  to  get  clear ;  then 
we'll  see  how  the  way  goes.  You're  safe  as  a  church  — 
that's  all  I  be  here  for  —  to  let  you  know  that.  'Tisn't 
for  you  to  think  of  other  people  and  their  luck  —  'tis 
for  you  to  know  that  right  will  be  done,  and  that  the 
law's  powerless  against  your  innocence.  You're  safe 
every  way,  remember.  All  the  judges  on  earth  and  all 
the  juries,  too,  can't  hurt  you,  for  'tisn't  only  my  word. 
I've  got  a  witness,  mind.  My  own  wife  saw  it,  and 
come  the  pinch  she's  as  straight  as  me." 

He  meant  no  hurt  by  his  speech ;  he  said  it  out  of 
simple  good-fellowship  to  lift  the  darkness  of  the  accused 
man ;  but  it  was  inevitable  that  such  an  aspect  of  the 
situation  must  cast  Snow  into  a  nether  depth,  and  so 
it  did. 

The  interview  was  now  ended,  and  Redstone  prepared 
to  depart. 

"  Good-bye,  and  good  luck  and  a  long  life  to  you !  " 
he  said. 

Then  Timothy's  visitors  went  their  way,  and  Snow  was 
left  alone.     The  lawyer,  as  he  learned  later,  knew  nothing 
of  John's  information,  and  Snow  perceived  that  it  must 
remain  hidden  until  after  the  trial. 
23 


354  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

Life  darkened  for  him  then,  and  he  sank  into  profound 
abysses,  suffered  utmost  agonies,  surprised  many  a  mean 
secret  of  human  instinct  sneaking  through  the  recesses  of 
his  soul.  Thoughts  that  he  had  not  conceived  possible 
crept  out  of  his  brains.  He  loathed  himself  for  them, 
nor  knew  in  his  shuddering,  that  primal  instincts  are 
inherited  and  not  within  control  of  the  noblest  spirit. 
They  must  escape  from  the  mind  in  shape  of  thought. 
To  detect  them  is  to  scorn  them ;  to  escape  breeding 
them,  given  the  stimulus,  is  impossible.  Thoughts  —  so 
he  tried  to  suppose  —  may  be  no  more  than  alternatives 
set  forth  in  a  mechanical  brain,  driven  by  its  own  ma- 
chinery to  ring  the  permutations  and  combinations  of 
every  given  circumstance.  Thus  alone  could  he  reconcile 
to  his  conscience  certain  hateful  dreams,  hopes,  and 
hideous  desires  that  overtook  him  now.  He  pictured 
Drusilla  free ;  he  saw  that  only  Redstone's  destruction 
could  prove  his  own  innocence.  Then  some  natural  heri- 
tage of  pride  and  temper,  hidden  deep  in  him,  hoped 
that  he  would  not  escape  but  be  convicted,  since  only 
through  conviction  could  perfect  vindication  come. 

But  the  heart  that  harboured  these  human  emotions 
could  also  soar  on  wide  wings,  and  out  of  the  welter  of 
his  thoughts  there  trembled  and  steadied  presently  certain 
noble  inspirations.  They  puzzled  him,  and  yet  persisted, 
like  steadfast  rainbows  on  the  fury  of  a  storm  cloud. 
They  puzzled  him,  because  they  seemed  a  negation  of 
all  that  he  thought  and  believed  and  professed,  a  con- 
tradiction of  his  rooted  opinions  and  ideas.  For  he  had 
often  declared  pity  and  self-sacrifice  to  be  but  barren 
folly;  he  had  felt  positive  that  self-expression  is  higher 
than  self-sacrifice,  and  that  the  mighty  of  the  earth  are 
not  those  whose  shoulders  ache  under  other's  burdens. 

He  had  ample  leisure  to  reflect  through  the  silences 
of  long  nights ;  he  even  fought  the  growing  doubts,  and 
told  himself  that  he  was  a  traitor  to  himself  ;  he  explained 
these  spiritual  rainbows,  but  he  did  not  explain  them 
away.  He  suspected  that  they  were  a  survival  and  must 
be  ignored ;  he  supposed  that  his  heart  was  tamed,  that 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  355 

his  physical  imprisonment  had  stricken  the  true  courage 
and  pure  egoism  of  his  nature,  had  excised  them,  emascu- 
lated them,  and  appHed  an  ointment  of  the  old  mother- 
taught  values  to  the  wound.  For  a  time  he  trembled 
at  his  promptings,  fearing  them  to  be  sprung  from  pure 
Christianity  —  a  thing  intensely  hateful  to  his  nature. 
But  a  curious  accident  relieved  him  of  this  suspicion  and 
drove  him  still  further  along  the  transcendent  path  that 
for  a  while  he  trod.  There  was  a  copy  of  Plutarch's 
"  Lives  "  in  the  prison,  and  he  found  from  it  that  human 
heroism  is  not  a  prerogative  of  creed,  but  a  thing  far 
higher  than  all  creeds. 

To  analyse  the  subsequent  processes  of  his  mind  were 
interesting  by  virtue  of  their  great  complexity,  but  the 
trend  now  set  steadily  toward  some  sort  of  sacrifice.  He 
knew  not  exactly  of  what  nature  his  abnegation  might 
be,  and  he  perceived  that  he  must  lie  more  or  less  at 
the  mercy  of  John  Redstone.  His  pride  whispered  to 
him  that  his  thoughts  were  taking  a  higher  flight  than 
Redstone's,  and  there  came  with  this  belief  a  doubt 
whether  self-preservation,  at  this  stage  of  his  life,  might 
not  be  a  deeper  service  to  the  world  than  the  preservation 
of  Redstone.  He  felt  himself  to  be  the  more  valuable 
man.  Then  Drusilla  obscured  any  plain  issue.  She  had 
not  thrown  him  over  for  any  lack  of  love,  but  for  fulness 
of  love.  She  had  suffered  him  to  slip  out  of  her  life 
for  his  own  welfare.  Hers  had  been  a  mighty  self-sacri- 
fice. Her  love  for  him,  in  truth,  had  lived  no  more  after 
such  handling,  but.  .  .  .  How  she  would  love  him  if  he 
were  able  to  save  her  husband !  For  a  time  he  told  him- 
self that  he  was  powerless;  that  at  best  he  could  only 
stand  his  trial  and  trust  to  chance.  Even  if  he  pleaded 
guilty,  Redstone  would  come  forward  and  call  upon  his 
wife  to  prove  that  he  indeed  had  killed  Lot  Snow.  The 
law  did  not  allow  a  wife  to  give  evidence  against  her 
husband;  but  the  judge  would  know  of  it,  since  a  life 
hung  upon  it.  It  was  certain  that  he  could  not  save  Red- 
stone by  pleading  guilty.  For  a  time  his  thoughts  stood 
still ;  then  the  man's  relentless  mind  forced  an  alternative 


356  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

upon  him.  There  was  still  open  a  road  by  which  he 
might  cut  the  ground  from  under  Redstone's  feet,  and 
implicitly  confess  to  the  crime  by  an  act  which  would 
relieve  the  other  man  of  all  necessity  to  tell  the  truth.  If 
that  was  to  be  the  way,  he  must  take  it  quickly.  But  he 
did  no  such  thing.  He  hesitated,  resented  the  inspiration, 
turned  from  his  heroic  dreams  and  sought  to  convince 
himself  that  they  sprang  of  faulty  ideals.  He  hated  the 
thought  of  being  a  victim.  The  victim  was  always  the 
slave  to  the  herd  —  slave  to  the  base  —  slave  to  duty  — 
slave  to  physical  or  mental  pressures,  it  mattered  not 
which.  He  told  himself  that  he  asked  himself  too  much. 
The  thought  to  play  the  slave  and  sacrifice  himself  was 
not  nobility  but  a  pusillanimous  and  futile  recrvidescence 
of  old  values  that  had  surprised  him.  He  endeavoured  to 
dismiss  this  consideration  of  suicide  as  a  vain  and  a  vile 
thing,  but  he  did  not  succeed.  Meantime,  the  days  dur- 
ing which  the  commission  of  such  an  act  would  be  possi- 
ble ran  swiftly  out,  and  his  trial  approached. 


CHAPTER  XV 

There  had  fallen  the  first  snow,  and  it  was  heavy.  For 
a  week  the  cold  persisted,  and  earth,  fortified  by  frost  to 
support  the  burden,  lay  deeply  buried. 

The  time  was  come  for  Timothy's  trial,  and  now  Dru- 
silla  and  her  husband,  tramping  the  high  ground  above 
Yarner,  spoke  concerning  it.  They  had  left  little  to  say 
or  think  upon  the  situation,  and  Redstone,  seeing  that 
his  own  vision  was  clear  and  his  determination  fixed,  of 
late  had  found  necessity  to  deceive  his  wife.  He  tried 
for  a  long  time  to  guide  her  to  his  own  point  of  view, 
exercised  great  patience,  and  strove  in  a  thousand  ways 
through  weary  wastes  of  speech  to  bring  her  to  it ;  but 
naturally  he  failed.  Exercise  what  care  he  might,  the 
moment  the  vital  problem  was  reached ;  the  moment  life 
or  death  came  to  be  the  matter  and  the  question  arose  of 
Redstone's  future  actions  if  Snow  were  sentenced  to 
capital  punishment  —  then  did  Drusilla  instantly  grow 
frenzied.  But  for  all  his  own  turmoil,  John  never  bated 
of  patience  and  sympathy.  They  were  grown  very  close 
together  again  before  the  end,  but  it  was  an  understanding 
founded  on  Redstone's  deception.  He  pretended  at  last 
to  see  with  his  wife's  eyes ;  he  conceded  that  there  was 
much  to  be  said  on  both  sides ;  he  left  the  future  to  de- 
clare itself,  and  admitted  possible  courses  which  to  his 
secret  spirit  were  inadmissible. 

She  had  begun  to  dread  his  evasion  at  this  stage,  and 
while  they  tramped  the  snow  together,  she  asked  him  to 
be  clear. 

"  I  must  be,  very  soon,"  he  answered,  "  for  we  shall 
know  how  we  stand  the  day  after  to-morrow,  if  not  to- 
morrow night.  The  trial,  they  tell  me,  is  like  to  be  very 
short,  for  there's  scarce  any  witnesses.  'Twill  be  what 
they  call  circumstantial  evidence  —  as  most  murders  hinge 
upon." 

357 


358  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"Do  Timothy  want  to  live  same  as  you  do?"'  slic 
asked.  The  question  was  significant,  nnd  had  sliowed  an 
observer  her  desperate  state  of  mind.  Drusilla  would 
have  shuddered  at  such  naked  thoughts  in  the  past ;  now 
life  itself  went  naked  and  unashamed  when  she  was  with 
her  husband.  She  neglected  decencies  and  the  subtleties 
that  she  had  ever  prided  herself  upon.  She  avoided  all 
people  but  Redstone,  since  the  futility  of  everyday  mat- 
ters and  the  barren  triviality  of  all  earthly  affairs,  save  her 
own,  made  the  companionship  of  others  impossible  at  this 
crisis.  Redstone  had  driven  her  to  them,  that  she  might 
distract  her  thoughts ;  but  she  could  not  suffer  it,  and 
had  some  ado  to  keep  from  screaming  or  losing  self-con- 
trol when  among  her  kind.  He  was  more  reticent  than 
she,  and  wondered  at  her ;  but  no  cause  existed  for  wonder 
since  terror  banishes  pudency  and  strips  to  the  bedrock 
of  the  soul. 

"  Yes,  he  did  want  to  live,  and  why  not  ? "  John 
answered  Drusilla  now.  "  His  good  time's  coming,  poor 
devil,  and  so  it  ought  to.  He's  had  plenty  to  turn  him 
grey  and  sour.  He  tried  to  hide  what  he  felt,  but  my 
wits  have  grown  sharper  of  late,  and  I  couldn't  fail  to 
mark  his  thanksgiving.  'Twas  like  a  dog  as  thinks  his 
dinner  be  forgot,  and  then  turns  round  to  find  it  coming. 
He  wagged  his  tail,  I  warrant  you  —  couldn't  help  it ! 
Things  have  failed  out  very  fair,  come  to  think  upon  it, 
Drusilla.  I've  had  my  good  time,  and,  seeing  how 
damned  good  it  was,  you  can't  be  churlish  and  say  'twas 
short.  'Twas  up  to  the  brim  —  a  full  cup.  But  Snow 
—  think  how  his  cup  was  dashed  from  his  lip  —  twice 
over.  A  thing  to  break  even  the  toughest  spirit ;  and  his 
spirit's  broke  all  right:  you  can  read  that  in  his  eyes. 
Twice  it  fell  out,  you  see.  First  he  won  you  and  lost 
you.  Bad  enough  to  lose  you,  but  hell  to  lose  you  after 
winning  you.  And  then  the  money  and  power  —  and 
afore  he'd  properly  gripped  'em  and  settled  what  to  do 
with  his  life  —  just  at  the  first  sip  of  the  cup  —  gone! 
Gone,  and  death  grinning  at  him  instead.  And  a  nasty, 
ugly  death  for  a  proud  man  —  ugly  even  if  he  deserved 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  359 

it  —  shattering  and  bewildering  and  beyond  belief  if  he 
didn't.  All  that  I  marked ;  and  then  to  find  the  clouds 
lifting  and  see  the  blue  again !  Yes,  faith,  he  was  glad. 
He  wouldn't  be  human  if  he  hadn't  been." 

Her  mind  had  wandered. 

"  I'd  wait  till  I  was  grey  and  old  for  you,  John.  Any- 
thing—  anything  but  never  to  see  you  again," 

"  Leave  that.  I  know  what  you  are.  D'you  think  I'm 
not  putting  you  first  and  your  future?  All  will  be  well, 
I  tell  you.  You  must  trust  me  to  do  what  is  fitting, 
Drusilla.  'Tis  a  stupid  piece  of  work,  but  what  be  men 
made  for  but  to  cut  knots  and  cleave  their  way  through 
the  tangle  of  life?  This  be  man's  work  in  front  of  me, 
seemingly,  and  life  ought  to  be  man's  work,  I  reckon  — ■ 
man's  work  and  woman's  work  —  each  to  their  own. 
You  and  me  ban't  shirkers.  We'll  do  what's  appointed 
—  no  coward  you." 

Thus  vaguely  yet  of  set  purpose  he  often  talked  now, 
and  left  her  unsatisfied  and  doubtful  of  his  intentions. 
He  desired  to  create  this  doubt  in  her.  He  developed 
an  immense  craft  and  subtlety  in  his  dealings  with  her. 
Since  his  own  mind  was  made  up,  he  had  found  himself 
free  to  think  of  Drusilla,  and  he  left  no  stone  unturned  to 
order  the  falling  out  of  afiairs  with  an  eye  to  her  future. 
He  had  the  past  to  guide  him,  and  knew  her  nature  and 
the  dangers  that  would  beset  her;  but  he  was  sanguine 
that  he  might  preserve  her  and  leave  the  door  open  to 
future  content,  even  if  the  way  she  must  tread  were  steep 
and  hard. 

At  the  moment  that  the  trial  of  Timothy  Snow  was 
taking  place,  the  Redstones  were  bound  for  Dury  to  wish 
Jacob  many  happy  returns  of  his  birthday ;  but  John 
hesitated  presently  and  looked  round  about  them.  They 
had  not  yet  reached  Widecombe,  and  the  snow  began 
to  weary  Drusilla.  North-westward  the  day  grew  very 
dark  again,  and  the  sun  soon  vanished. 

"  We'll  hold  on  a  bit  longer,  but  I'm  feared  we  shan't 
get  there,"  said  John. 

Snow  humped  in  masses  on  the  gorse  and  swept  in 


36o  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

ridges  and  sheets  with  the  undulation  of  waves.  Over 
the  face  of  these  frozen  billows  were  visible  just  those 
delicate  surface  reticulations  to  be  seen  in  water,  for 
their  planes  were  pencilled  and  fretted  by  the  fingers  of 
the  wind.  Upon  a  miniature  plan  the  phenomena  were 
those  manifested  by  mountains  and  eternal  snows.  Here 
were  crevasses,  cornices,  bridges  —  all  on  a  fairy  scale. 
In  ruts  and  ravines  the  way  was  swept  almost  clear,  and 
over  these  tracts  the  fine  snow  sped  like  smoke.  Here 
and  there  were  traces  of  beasts  and  birds,  and  Redstone 
told  his  wife  what  creature  had  caused  them.  She  mar- 
velled to  hear  him  interested  in  such  matters  now.  He 
pointed  to  a  little  spore,  like  the  impress  of  one  small 
horse-shoe  repeated  in  a  line  across  a  smooth  sheet  of 
snow. 

"  Now  what  should  you  guess  made  that  ?  "  he  asked. 
"  You  would  think  'twas  the  hoof  of  the  devil,  or  a  one- 
legged  jackass.  But  'tis  only  a  rabbit,  after  all.  He 
lops  along,  and  his  forepaws  make  a  hole  in  the  snow  to- 
gether, and  then  he  brings  up  his  hind  pads,  that  he 
squats  on,  and  they  are  just  wide  enough  apart  to  make 
the  sides  of  the  shoe."  He  pointed  out  the  track  of  a 
fox  presently.  "  You  can  tell  'twas  a  fox  and  not  a  dog 
by  the  trail  of  his  brush,"  he  explained. 

The  snow  began  to  fall  again;  it  was  very  cold,  and 
Drusilla,  in  no  case  for  a  fight  against  the  weather,  agreed 
gladly  to  the  suggestion  they  should  go  back. 

"  Grandfather  will  be  terrible  disappointed,  but  not 
surprised,"  said  Redstone.  "  The  snow  will  have  told 
him  long  ago  'twas  unlikely  we  should  be  there,  but  the 
wind's  going  round,  and  it  ban't  going  to  last." 

A  fleeting  sun-gleam  broke  in  a  fan  of  fire  through 
the  clouds  and  gilded  the  desert.  The  light  shone  like 
gold  on  the  snow,  wheeled  and  vanished. 

They  turned,  and  Redstone  walked  between  his  wife 
and  the  wind. 

"  Us'll  go  home  and  have  a  cosy  time,  and  drink  gafifer's 
good  health  in  a  drop  of  liquor,"  he  said. 

In  little  more  than  an  hour  they  were  at  home,  and 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  361 

by  that  time  the  wind  had  shifted  and  the  snow  turned 
to  sleet. 

After  nightfall  it  was  raining  and  thawing  fast.  In 
the  woods  ran  a  sound  of  snow  slapping  down  in  lumps 
from  the  fir-trees.  When  the  day  was  spent,  under  pre- 
text of  work,  John  went  out  and  climbed  by  a  hill  tract 
from  his  home  to  that  of  Amos  Kingdon  at  the  lodge 
gates.  He  guessed  that  the  sentence  might  be  known,  but 
it  was  not.  Kingdon's  son  had  returned  late  from  Ilsing- 
ton,  but  the  last  telegram  received  only  told  how  the  jury 
retired  to  consider  their  verdict.  More  could  not  be 
learned  until  the  morning. 

Even  this  much,  however,  Redstone  did  not  tell  again 
when  he  returned  to  Drusilla.  He  pretended  to  be  in 
good  spirits,  and,  knowing  her  superstitious  nature,  fooled 
his  wife,  laughed  in  her  eyes,  and  declared  that  a  convic- 
tion amounting  to  certainty  reigned  in  his  mind. 

"  He's  free  —  a  free  man.  Something  tells  me  that  'tis 
so,"  he  declared.  "  I've  a  feeling  in  me  that  the  first 
moment  possible  to-morrow  a  telegram  will  come  to  me 
with  the  words,  '  Free  —  Snow. '  I  see  it  so  plain  as  if 
'twas  stuck  up  against  the  mantelshelf !  But  I  must  be 
away  at  dawn,  for  there's  shooting  to-morrow,  so  'twill  be 
for  you  to  open  it." 

Thus  he  calmed  her,  and  half  fired  her  with  his  pre- 
tended inspiration.  But  when  the  night  was  come  and 
she  slept  heavily,  he  rose  without  wakening  her,  went  to 
the  kitchen,  drew  out  some  sheets  of  lined  "  foolscap  " 
and  wrote  laboriously  for  two  hours.  He  had  no  prac- 
tice in  this  medium,  but  laboured  to  make  his  statement 
absolutely  clear.  Completing  it  at  length  to  his  satisfac- 
tion, he  sealed  the  letter  with  wax,  marked  it  "  immedi- 
ate," and  directed  it  to  Timothy  Snow's  lawyer  at  New- 
ton Abbot.  He  then  hid  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  velveteen 
coat,  and  prepared  to  return  to  bed.  Before  doing  so 
he  looked  out  into  the  night,  and  found  that  the  rain  had 
ceased.  The  moon  shone  and  the  woods  glittered  against 
their  inner  darkness.  The  snow  at  these  lower  levels 
was  nearly  gone  already,  but  it  persisted  in  one  deep 


362  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

drift  which  he  could  see  from  his  cottage  door.  He 
looked  at  the  earth  and  sky  and  saw  the  chimney  of  the 
old  mine  towering  black  from  one  to  the  other.  Against 
the  woods  it  hove,  and  they,  too,  were  dark  but  meshed 
in  the  silver  hazes  of  the  moonlight,  and  washed  with  a 
tremor  of  faint  pearl  where  the  birches  glimmered.  A 
night  bird  screamed,  and  through  the  silent  hour  the 
swollen  waters  of  the  brook  made  a  loud  crying. 

Redstone  returned  to  bed  and  slipped  beside  Drusilla 
without  wakening  her.  His  thoughts  were  such  that  he 
slept  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

John  Redstone  rose  betimes,  and  explained  to  Drusilla 
that  she  must  be  patient. 

She  woke  under  the  incubus  of  the  day  and  desired  him 
not  to  leave  her ;  but  he  departed  after  the  morning  meal. 

"  Expect  me  when  you  see  me,"  he  said,  and  set  off. 
He  stole  a  backward  glance  as  he  moved  away  and  saw 
that  Drusilla  was  still  watching  him,  whereupon  he  waved 
his  hand  and  looked  back  no  more.  Something  moved 
in  her  heart  and  she  was  tempted  to  cry  out  to  him,  but 
she  controlled  herself  and  went  about  her  duties. 

The  man  proceeded  straight  to  Ilsington,  and,  passing 
to  the  post-office,  met  a  doctor  coming  out  of  the  dwelling 
of  the  Snows  beside  the  lich-gate.  The  incident  in  some 
way  told  him  all  that  he  came  to  know.  He  stopped  the 
medical  man  and  learned  the  verdict  incidentally. 

"  The  old  women  are  both  pretty  bad.  Miss  Snow's 
had  a  fit,  and  she's  little  likely  to  get  over  it.  Mrs.  Snow 
—  his  mother  —  has  collapsed,  but  she'll  be  all  right  pres- 
ently." 

He  spoke,  assuming  that  Redstone  would  follow  him. 

"  The  verdict's  out,  then  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He's  to  be  hanged.  The  summing  up  went  all 
against  him,  and  the  judge,  when  passing  sentence,  told 
him  he  could  give  no  promise  of  reprieve.  He  rather 
rubbed  it  in.     Of  course,  there  never  was  any  doubt." 

Redstone  nodded. 

"  It  all  fitted  very  close  together,"  he  said. 

"  There's  not  a  question  in  the  mind  of  any  sane  man," 
answered  the  other.  "  I  go  by  deeper  things  than  mere 
circumstantial  evidence,  and  always  believed  that  he  was 
guilty  from  the  first.  T  judged  by  character.  T  knew 
the  man  fairly  well.  He  was  godless  and  ambitious. 
What  more  natural,  being  restrained  by  no  moral  law 

363 


364  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

and  having  no  religion,  that  he  should  give  vent  to  his 
ambition  and  take  the  opportunity  offered  ?  He  clutched 
at  power,  and  it  has  brought  him  to  this." 

The  doctor  bustled  off,  but  Redstone  stood  still  for  a 
moment.  Then  he  felt  in  his  pocket  for  the  letter  written 
during  the  night  and  went  to  the  post-office.  A  dozen 
men  and  one  or  two  women  were  congregated  outside 
scanning  a  telegram  stuck  in  the  window. 

"  He's  got  it,  John,"  said  Saul  Butt,  the  woodman,  who 
was  among  them. 

"  So  I  hear,  poor  devil,"  said  Redstone.  Then  he 
posted  his  letter  and  went  up  the  village. 

Butt  growled. 

"  All  very  well  to  say  *  poor  devil,' "  he  remarked. 
"  But  I  should  like  to  know  the  man  as  will  tell  me  Snow 
be  going  to  have  more  than  he  deserves." 

Redstone  meanwhile  returned  to  the  lich-gate,  con- 
sidered a  moment,  and  entered  the  house  of  the  Snows. 
He  asked  to  see  Timothy's  mother,  and  was  told  by  the 
parish  nurse  that  he  could  not  do  so ;  but  he  insisted. 

"  It's  something  concerning  her  son  —  a  very  important 
thing,  and  more  like  to  mend  her  than  any  doctor's 
stuff,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Snow  was  dressing,  but  came  to  him  with  a  shawl 
round  her,  and  her  scanty  grey  hair  about  her  neck. 

"  Come  in  a  private  place,  missis ;  I  want  to  speak  to 
you.     'Tis  very  important  for  you  and  yours." 

They  stood  in  the  parlour  presently,  and  he  told  her 
in  brief  words  that  her  son  was  innocent. 

"  I  meant  you  should  be  the  first  to  hear  if  the  ver- 
dict went  wrong.  None  else  matters  much  now.  Your 
son  is  safe  —  quite  safe  —  and  he  knows  he's  safe  —  and 
he'll  be  free  so  soon  as  ever  'tis  cleared  up.  I've  just 
wrote  it  all  off  to  the  lawyer.  So  you  be  cheerful  and 
happy.  He'll  come  home  very  soon,  and  not  a  stain  on 
his  name.  'Twas  right  you  should  know.  Trust  me,  I 
tell  nought  but  the  truth.  You  can  let  Miss  Snow  hear, 
if  she  ban't  past  hearing  —  her  and  everybody.  The 
name  of  the  man  that  did  it  will  be  known  to-morrow, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  365 

if  not  sooner.  Keep  up  —  don't  droop  —  don't  give 
way !  All's  well  with  Timothy.  Let  everybody  know 
that.  I'll  call  the  nurse  to  'e.  And  now  I  must  be 
away,  for  I'm  busy." 

He  left  her,  sitting  where  she  had  suddenly  sunk  on  a 
chair,  called  to  the  nurse  and  went  out.  Then  he  started 
for  the  Moor,  walked  swiftly  up  from  Ilsington,  climbed 
the  hill  under  Bag  Tor,  and  presently  reached  the  high- 
road to  Widecombe.  The  snow  was  fast  melting;  the 
day  was  grey  and  raw,  but  no  rain  fell.  He  sped  forward 
in  full  strength  and  vigour,  yet  his  feet  could  not  keep 
pace  with  his  desires.  There  were  things  to  be  said  that 
must  be  said,  and  he  was  very  impatient  to  say  them. 
He  thought  only  of  Drusilla  during  his  walk,  wondered 
whether  his  way  was  the  right  one,  and  concluded  that 
it  must  be.  His  plans  were  complete:  they  had  been 
founded  on  recent  circumstances,  for  he  had  felt  sure  of 
the  verdict. 

He  overtook  an  acquaintance  travelling  the  road  be- 
yond Widecombe,  and  fell  in  with  Seth  Campion,  bound 
for  Dury.  He  carried  his  arm  in  a  sling.  Seth  in  his 
slow  voice  bade  him  "  good-morning." 

"  I  be  travelling  to  see  your  grandfather,"  he  said. 
"  Essterday  was  his  birthday,  and  I  was  going  up  over 
to  take  my  dinner  along  with  him ;  but  the  snow  came, 
and  it  looked  a  bit  ugly  just  when  I  should  have  been  on 
my  way ;  and  knowing  the  wisdom  and  understanding 
of  the  old  man,  I  said  to  myself,  *  He'll  not  be  surprised 
if  I  don't  come,  owing  to  the  unshed  snow  in  the  ele- 
ments.' And  so  I  be  going  now  instead.  T  be  at  large 
for  the  minute,  owing  to  my  hand  festering  where  a 
turnip  knife  slipped  and  went  home  to  the  bone  very 
near." 

"  I'm  for  Dury  too,  and  'twas  the  snow  turned  me 
back  yesterday  —  me  and  my  wife." 

"  Let  me  tell  him,"  said  Mr.  Campion.  "  'Tis  seldom 
I  get  the  chance,  owing  to  age  and  deafness,  to  be  first 
with  a  piece  of  news.  But  I  rose  afore  light  to-day,  and 
only  waited  till  the  red  paper  went  up  in  the  post-office 


366  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

to  be  off.  But  of  course  you  over-got  me  with  them  long, 
young  legs  of  yourn.  However,  1  should  much  like  to 
bring  the  awful  news  to  Jacob." 

Redstone  laughed. 

"  You  shall  tell  him,  Seth.  But  I'm  wanting  a  bit  of 
a  private  talk  with  him  after.     You'll  not  mind  that  ?  " 

"  'Tis  only  just  to  see  his  face  grow  long  and  his  old 
jaw  fall.  And  more :  I've  got  what  may  be  news  to  you. 
But  first  there's  Timothy  Snow,  of  course.  'Tis  a  huge- 
ous come-along-of-it  and  a  cruel  blow.  They  Snows  be 
a  cussed  race,  seemingly.  The  Lord  have  set  his  face 
against  'em,  and  wiped  one  out  by  the  hand  of  t'other  — 
a  favourite  trick  of  the  Almighty's,  that.  He'll  be 
hanged,  without  the  least  doubt,  it  seems.  'Tis  like  a 
dream.  And  to  think  of  that  great  carcase  hid  in  the 
wood  for  rats  to  make  merry  with,  and  Timothy  hand- 
ling the  money !  The  brain  reels  afore  such  mysteries. 
A  murderer's  nerve  he  had,  no  doubt.  Then  there's 
Willes  Leaman  and  Mrs.  Leaman,  my  master  and  mis- 
tress, and  the  amazing  matter  of  Miss  Audrey  —  Miss 
Audrey  I  call  her;  but  she's  Mrs.  Eustace  Champer- 
nowne  now,  and  be  coming  to  see  her  parents  and  Sir 
Percy  presently.  They  arrive  o'  Friday  week,  and  I'd 
give  a  month  of  my  wages  to  see  her  go  afore  Sir  Percy. 
A  high  moment  for  her,  I  warn  'e,  Redstone !  But  she'll 
stand  up  afore  him  in  all  the  strength  and  pride  of  her 
Lunnon  clothes,  and  if  he  hardens  his  heart  against  her, 
he'll  be  the  first  man  as  ever  was  known  to  do  it." 

"  Tim  Snow  hardened  his  heart  against  her." 

"  Thank  God  he  did.  But  that  weren't  Audrey's  fault. 
For  the  man's  heart  was  full  —  full  of  red  murder  and 
dark  plots  and  devilries.  There  was  no  room  in  it  for 
love  of  a  woman.  My  master  waited  on  Sir  Percy  three 
days  agone,  and  found  him  dry  as  a  bone  about  it.  No 
temper,  nor  harsh  oaths.  '  What's  done  be  done,'  was 
his  word.  And  Audrey's  great  Dane  dog,  by  the  name 
of  '  Battle,'  be  gone  to  Yarner  to  welcome  her !  At  her 
special  wish  it  was  sent  for  —  so  you  see  her  power 
begins  already.     A  footman  came  for  it  in  the  Yarner 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  367 

livery.  Leaman  be  getting  a  tliouglit  puffed  up,  in  my 
opinion,  and  his  wife's  bursting  with  pride.  Audrey  will 
go  to  the  Royal  Court  in  fulness  of  time.  Ess,  I  heard 
Mary  Leaman  telling  Mrs.  Chad  and  Mr.  Blackaller  that 
her  daughter  would  appear  afore  the  King  and  Queen 
afore  many  more  years  had  passed.  In  fact  Mary  Lea- 
man's  got  a  good  bit  above  herself  and  she  dared  to  ax 
her  husband  if  she  might  go  and  call  on  Sir  Percy  and 
take  a  look  at  the  house.  But  he  forbade  it.  Then  she 
axed  to  have  a  walk  in  the  woods.  And  he  wouldn't  let 
her  do  that  neither;  so  she  just  went  on  the  quiet,  and 
Kingdon  met  her  in  the  midst,  and  didn't  know  for  his 
life  whether  to  turn  her  going  or  let  her  bide.  But  he 
decided,  being  a  man  of  foresight,  to  let  her  bide.  And 
so  he  did.  Tis  a  mizmaze  of  a  world  surely,  and  us 
people  of  Ilsington  be  the  centre  of  it  for  the  minute. 
England's  eye  is  upon  us  without  a  doubt,  and  every 
tongue  is  telling  about  us.  But  'twill  soon  calm  down 
again  and  be  forgot  as  such  things  are." 

Old  Jacob  Redstone  was  much  delighted  to  see  his 
visitors. 

"  Well  now !  The  two  men  I  like  best  in  the  world, 
and  both  together!  You  be  welcome,  I'm  sure.  I  gived 
up  hope  of  'e  yesterday  along  of  the  harsh  weather.  But 
I'm  sure  as  you  wished  me  well.  How's  Drusilla, 
Johnny?" 

"  All  right ;  and  I'll  ax  you  to  let  me  write  a  letter, 
grandfather,  afore  I  go  further.  'Tis  important,  and  you 
can  have  a  tell  with  Campion  while  I  do  it ;  and  after 
that  I  must  have  a  tell  with  you." 

Thus  the  matter  fell  out,  and  Redstone  wrote  a  long 
letter  to  his  wife. 

Then  Seth  went  to  look  at  the  stock  and  talk  to  a 
hind,  while  grandfather  and  grandson  spoke  together. 

The  younger  plunged  instantly  to  the  heart  of  the  mat- 
ter, but  deeply  mourned  the  blow  that  he  must  strike. 

"  My  old  dear,"  he  said,  "  I've  got  some  bitter  news 
for  you ;  but  you  have  weathered  a  peck  of  trouble  in 
your  time,  and,  be  it  as  it  will,  though  you  and  me  have 


368  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

got  to  part,  it  won't  be  for  long,  if  there's  another  world 
after  this,  as  you  think." 

"  Part,  Johnny !  What  be  you  after  now  ?  What  a 
rush  of  news !  'Tis  almost  too  much  for  my  old  brains. 
Here's  poor  Snow  doomed,  by  all  accounts  —  doomed 
to  die  —  an  awful  thing  for  his  mother  —  and — " 

'*  Listen.  If  there  was  only  you,  I  think  I  wouldn't 
tell  you,  for  'tis  a  thing  will  hurt  your  tender  heart  a 
good  bit.  But  there's  more  than  you  —  one  more  —  my 
wife.  Grandfather,  I  must  hand  Drusilla  over  to  you. 
You  needn't  waste  time  or  tears  on  me.  You  must  fight 
for  her,  and  keep  a  stiff  upper  lip  for  her,  and  steer  her 
into  some  sort  of  peace  and  keep  her  going.  With  time 
she'll  come  through.  'Tis  a  hard  fight  for  an  old  man 
to  fight.  But  you're  the  brave  sort  —  you'll  win.  'Twill 
be  the  grandest  thing  in  all  your  life,  my  old  hero,  if 
you  bring  it  off." 

"  What  the  mischief  be  you  talking  about,  John  ?  I 
can't  make  top  nor  tail  of  it." 

"  How  should  you  ?  My  mind  runs  on  so  to  the  future 
and  what'll  happen  after,  that  I  be  forgetting  what  must 
happen  first.  Always  impatient,  you  see!  Well,  grand- 
father, you  must  hold  up  and  trust,  as  you  be  used  to 
trust,  that's  all  right  at  bottom  and  nought  happens  that 
didn't  ought.  And  then  it  won't  look  so  bad.  In  a  word 
—  this  business  of  Timothy  Snow.  He  didn't  kill  old 
Lot.  .  .  .  'Twas  me,  grandfather.  In  a  rage  I  hit  him 
down  —  just  fell  into  a  passion  under  his  sharp  tongue 
and  my  wrongs.  And  the  next  minute  I  found  Dru  at 
her  last  gasp,  for  she  saw  me  slay  the  old  devil.  And 
then  I  forgot  all  about  him." 

"  Johnny,  you're  mad !  " 

"  Not  a  chance.  Just  listen  quietly,  so  as  you  shall 
have  all  clear.  I've  come  to  it  slow,  but  terrible  sure. 
I've  weighed  it  all  round.  Some  things  had  to  be,  but 
I  went  in  long  doubt  about  the  way  of  them.  I've  got 
to  go,  grandfather.  I've  done  what  I've  done,  and  I 
must  quit.  And  the  pain  of  killing  myself  would  be 
nought  against  the  pain  of  being  killed  by  another  man, 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  369 

or  the  pain  of  being  shut  up  for  twenty  years  —  shut  up 
to  rot  alive.  I  won't  rot  till  I  be  dead,  you  must  know. 
.  .  .  The  price  must  be  paid,  of  course.  .  .  .  And  Dru- 
silla  —  she  wants  to  come  along  of  me ;  but  she  can't. 
First  she's  got  to  keep  alive  to  clear  Timothy  —  then 
for  herself  —  and  for  you.  Well,  we've  had  a  grand 
time  —  a  grand  time.  Nothing  could  be  better  or  finer 
than  the  time  we've  had.  We  don't  leave  off  in  the 
middle  but  at  the  end.  .  .  .  We've  had  all  —  all  that  my 
manhood  and  her  womanhood  and  love  could  give  us. 
Nought  could  be  better.  A  day  may  be  as  full  as  a  hun- 
dred years.  I  see  that  all  right.  We've  lived  in  a  fash- 
ion that  few  men  and  women  have  lived,  and  none  bet- 
tered. .  .  .  The  more  or  less  don't  matter:  you  can  only 
have  it  full  and  overflowing.  .  .  .  Everything  —  every- 
thing dead  right,  and  no  child  coming  to  put  her  in  a 
stew  nor  nothing.  All  good  luck  in  its  way  —  eh  ?  And 
you  must  tell  her  from  me  what  I  tell  her  in  this  here 
letter :  to  live,  if  ever  she  loved  me  —  to  live,  firstly  to 
clear  this  innocent,  valuable  man,  because  that's  her  duty 
so  to  do,  and  then  for  the  memory  of  me,  and  for  you. 
No  need  to  tell  her  more  than  that.  The  rest  will  work 
out  all  right.  Her  good  time's  coming  —  and  yet  I  won't 
say  that  neither.  She'll  never  do  better  than  she  did 
along  with  me.  Not  for  fire  and  heat  and  joyousness. 
But  when  she's  older,  then  she  may  stumble  on  peace  and 
quiet.  She'll  come  to  you  —  you  must  make  her  do  that. 
And  Dury  will  be  hers.  Tell  her  that.  Dammy,  'tis 
hard  to  fling  all  this  on  your  poor  old  back !  but  there's 
none  else  alive  but  you  that  would  bring  Drusilla  through. 
.  .  .  Tell  her  my  last  word  and  prayer  to  her  is,  '  Live 
for  love  o'  John.'  She  never  will  forget  me.  And  na- 
ture's her  side,  and  she'll  live  for  herself  again  presently, 
when  the  loss  be  over  and  the  wound  healed  up.  .  .  .  And 
you,  you  wise  old  bird!  You  understand,  don't  you? 
You  know  that  needs  must  when  life  drives  and  we 
break  loose  like  I  did  and  run  up  against  justice.  I 
never  told  'e  because  I  wanted  to  spare  'e  the  haunting 
thought,  and  knew  that  I'd  never  make  'e  feel  so  care- 
24 


370  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

less  to  it  and  indifferent  as  1  did.  But  I'd  have  told  'e 
and  spared  'e  this  gashly  shock  if  I'd  looked  forward  and 
seen  as  it  had  to  come  out." 

Jacob  was  sitting  staring  with  one  hand  hooked  over 
his  deaf  ear  and  his  lips  working.  His  face  had  gone 
very  grey  and  he  breathed  deeply.  He  stared  at  Red- 
stone, and  horror  lent  a  light  to  his  aged  eyes. 

"  I'm  cruel  sorry  for  you,  grandfather  —  sorrier  far 
than  for  myself.  There's  the  letter.  Put  it  in  your 
pocket  very  careful.  She'll  know  afore  you  get  to  her. 
She'll  know  when  she  hears  that  Timothy  be  sentenced. 
She'll  guess  then.  I  spared  her  the  pang  of  good-byes 
and  all  that.  I've  lied  of  late  —  to  ease  her  and  let  her 
get  her  sleep  of  nights.  It's  been  a  pretty  rough  time  for 
her.  You  must  rise  to  it,  old  chap.  You  believe  a  lot  of 
fine  things,  I  know,  and  doubtless  if  they  be  worth  powder 
and  shot,  they'll  stick  to  you  and  see  you  through  this 
pinch.  I've  got  to  be  selfish ;  but  you  must  forgive  me 
that  and  everything.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  grandfather,  you've 
been  father  and  grandfather  both  to  me  —  and  mother 
too  a'most.  And  'tis  poor  payment,  but  it  can't  be  helped, 
that  I  can  see.  You  know  I'd  have  saved  you  this  if  I 
could." 

"  O  Johnny,  my  Johnny  —  a  beautiful,  strong  creature 
like  you !  "  cried  the  old  man. 

"  Don't  touch  that.  That's  done.  That's  nought.  I 
can't  be  bothered  with  trifles  no  more.  I'm  long  past  all 
that.  There's  a  thing  got  to  be  done  —  a  nasty  thing  — 
but  you  know  how  I  took  my  physic  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  chap  —  dashed  at  it  and  let  it  down,  and  got  it  over." 

"  But  God  —  think  of  him,  Johnny." 

"  Let  Him  think  o'  me.  He'll  do  to  others  as  He'd  be 
done  by,  no  doubt.  I  know  that  now.  I  don't  fear  Him : 
I  trust  Him.  You  get  Campion  to  see  you  to  Yarner, 
presently  —  and  bide  there  for  a  bit.  Then  bring  Dru 
along  here.  She'll  have  had  her  fill  of  Yarner  by  that 
time  and  be  in  tune  for  this  place." 

"  You  mustn't  do  it  —  you  shan't,  John  !  I'll  fight  you 
for  it!" 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  IHLL  371 

"No  hurry  —  take  your  arms  away,  granrlfather. 
We'll  have  a  lot  of  talk  yet.  If  you  can  convince  nie  — 
why,  you  shall.  I  know  what  a  wise  old  man  you  are  — 
far,  far  wiser  than  me.  We'll  talk  —  there's  no  hurry 
at  all." 

He  calmed  Jacob  down  and  lied  to  him ;  and  in  his 
heart  reflected  how  this  departure  was  hedged  all  round 
with  falsehoods  that  it  might  be  more  decent.  None 
would  regard  his  necessity  with  sympathy,  or  take  eternal 
leave  of  him  in  the  spirit  of  reserve  and  self-control 
proper  to  such  a  parting. 

He  soothed  the  old  man,  expressed  his  willingness  to 
hear  him  presently,  after  they  had  eaten  their  dinner, 
and  hoodwinked  him  into  a  belief  that  it  might  be  possible 
yet  to  change  his  purpose.  Then  he  went  out  to  find 
Campion,  and  left  his  grandfather  in  the  house.  Cam- 
pion, however,  returned  a  moment  later.  He  had  missed 
the  keeper. 

"What's  amiss?"  said  Seth.  "You  look  cruel  down 
in  the  mouth.  My  news  have  tormented  'e.  'Tis  terrible 
enough,  without  a  doubt,  but  you  had  to  hear  it." 

The  other  had  become  very  weak,  and  trembled  on  his 
legs. 

"  Ess  fay,  Seth  Campion.  I  be  a  good  deal  shaken 
one  way  and  another.  I'm  old,  you  know.  Come  in  the 
kitchen.  Johnny  have  just  gone  to  look  for  'e.  There's 
a  loaded  fowling-piece  over  the  mantelshelf  —  good  God  ! 
what  be  I  saying?  " 

"  You'm  shook,  for  sartin.  But  put  it  out  of  your 
mind.  'Tis  a  dark  subject  for  such  an  ancient  man  as 
you  be.  They  pigs  have  come  on  something  wonnerful. 
You  be  pearter  with  pigs  than  any  of  us,  in  my  opinion. 
Now  Leaman,  he — " 

A  gun  fired  outside  the  house.  There  was  a  great 
cackle  of  poultry,  and  a  dog  began  to  bark. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  FOREST  knows  no  universal  slumber  for  the  sleep  of 
the  trees  is  the  wakening  of  many  lesser  things. 
Though  the  grey  trunk  lifts  upward  into  a  suspended  ani- 
mation of  branch  and  twig,  yet  its  surface  is  mottled  with 
much  busy  life.  The  mosses  fruit  and  thrive ;  the  lichens 
are  plump,  and  stretch  forth  growing  fingers  to  paint  the 
bole  and  bough  with  wafers,  discs,  washes  of  ebony  and 
ochre  and  silver  grey.  The  underwoods  sparkle  with 
tufts  and  cushions  of  glimmering  green,  here  dark,  here 
emerald  bright  and  shining.  Much  renewed  minor  life 
also  wakens  from  the  carpet  of  the  fallen  foliage. 

The  trees  indeed  sleep,  but  they  also  dream.  In  the 
heart  of  every  leafless  oak  a  dryad  whispers  that  the  days 
are  fleeting;  that  the  icy-footed  winter  hours  are  dancing 
with  the  snow  wreaths  away  in  their  chill  processions ; 
that  the  fountains  of  the  sap  will  soon  rise  again  to 
Spring's  unsealing ;  that  swiftly  will  the  bud-sheath  swell 
and  pale  and  shimmer  silky  down,  like  a  cast-off  veil  at 
the  feet  of  the  vernal  beeches. 

Drusilla  Redstone  and  Timothy  Snow  walked  side  by 
side,  and  ascended  through  Yarner  in  a  noon  of  winter 
sunshine.  She  wore  black,  and  upon  his  left  arm,  be- 
tween the  elbow  and  the  shoulder,  was  a  mourning  band. 

The  woman  had  changed  and  grown  thinner.  The 
man  looked  grey,  worn,  and  distressed.  Both  were  aged 
appreciably  during  the  last  few  months.  Since  John 
Redstone's  end  and  Snow's  subsequent  liberation,  Timo- 
thy and  Drusilla  had  come  together  but  once,  and  that 
for  a  moment  only.  Now  they  met  by  appointment,  and 
spoke  about  material  things.  Snow  declared  how  he 
and  his  mother  designed  to  leave  Ilsington,  relinquish  local 
interests  and  sell  his  property.  For  Sibella  Snow  was 
dead.     Nothing  remained  to  arrest  the  man's  departure. 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  373 

and  his  desire  was  to  leave  England  for  ever.  They 
spoke  to  one  another  lifelessly,  but  her  indifference  was 
the  greater. 

"  Grandfather  is  a  very  ancient  man,  and  this  have 
made  him  much  older.  He'll  grow  tootlish  and  silly  soon. 
A  sacred  trust  he  is  from  my  husband  to  me,  and  I'll 
pay  him  what  I  can  for  all  he  did  for  me  —  old  Jacob, 
I  mean.  'Twas  he  that  first  came  to  me  about  it,  and 
broke  it,  and  shared  it  with  me  as  none  else  could  have 
done.     We  kept  each  other  alive." 

"You'll  go  to  Dury?" 

"  To-morrow.  Dury's  my  home  henceforward.  He 
wanted  it  so.  I'm  going  to  live  by  work.  I've  never 
worked  yet  in  all  my  life  —  work  is  all  that's  left  now. 
I'm  going  to  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone." 

"  Wise  enough.     And  same  with  me.     'Tis  all  gone 

—  all  the  fine  ideas  and  the  things  I  thought  I  could  do 

—  they've  all  slipped  out  of  my  life.  I  care  no  more 
for  them.  I'll  sink  down  to  work  and  put  a  stopper  on 
thought." 

"  You'll  come  back  to  thought  in  time,  and  lift  your 
head  again  and  want  to  set  the  world  right." 

"  No,  Drusilla  —  never  again.  You'll  never  understand 
what  all  this  means  to  me  —  with  ideas  like  what  I  had. 
I  set  out  to  do  big  things ;  but  I've  only  suffered  them.  I 
meant  to  make  life  bend,  but  it's  bent  me.  I'm  old  — 
crumpled  up  —  very  near  broken.  I'm  puzzled  —  to  see 
how  the  weakness  in  me  let  me  be  drove  this  way  and 
that." 

"  Thought  came  between  you  and  action,"  she  said. 
"  He  was  different.  Once  his  mind  made  itself  up,  it 
never  unmade  itself  again." 

"  I  know  he  was  like  that.  I  had  got  the  idea  what 
a  man  ought  to  be,  but  he  was  the  man  —  at  any  rate 
much  more  like  the  thing  than  me.  I've  suffered  terrible 
to  find  how  weak  I  was,  yet  I  suffered  nothing  to  what 
you  had  to  suffer.  'Tis  an  awful  confusion  and  a  disaster 
to  be  born  at  all  if  you're  born  to  what  you  were  born  — 
or  him  —  or  me." 


374  I'HE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

"  You're  wrong  there.  He  was  all  right.  The  day 
before  he  died  —  the  minute  before  —  he  said  to  his 
grandfather  that  he'd  had  a  fine,  full  life  —  and  he 
meant  it.  I  clung  to  that  after.  I  knew  he  was  going. 
I  knew  it  in  my  blood ;  I  saw  it  in  the  way  he  looked  at 
me.  But  he  hid  it  all  he  could,  and  never  said  '  good- 
bye.' " 

"  That  was  the  man.  I  thought  I  was  as  strong  as  all 
that  —  fit  and  strong  to  stand  anything.     But  — " 

"  You  needn't  belittle  yourself,"  she  interrupted. 
"  Y'ou  are  yourself,  and  you'll  do  what  life  lets  you  and 
get  reconciled  to  your  conscience  yet,  I  daresay.  Who 
can  blame  you  ?  " 

"  God  knows  what  I  shall  do :  I  don't.  My  brains  have 
played  me  false  in  a  sort  of  way.     I'm  beat." 

"  You're  cowed  like  I  was  —  not  beat.  You've  nought 
to  blame  yourself  with.  You  was  catched  up  into  this. 
Everybody  is  weak  at  some  moment,  and  'twas  just  your 
bad  luck  that  the  moment  found  you  weak  when  you 
come  across  the  dead  man.  My  husband  knew  all  that, 
and  saw  it  all  amazing  clear.  He  never  blamed  you. 
The  hard  thing  was  that  the  truth  looked  like  a  lie,  and 
you  couldn't  make  people  believe  you  was  innocent.  John 
was  very  sorry  for  you  —  and  I  am  now." 

"  I'd  better  have  died,"  he  said. 

"  You  know  best." 

They  walked  a  little  way,  and  she  spoke  again. 

"  I  go  out  of  this  to-morrow.  My  mind's  long  shifted 
to  the  other  place.  I  used  to  hate  Dury  first  I  went  there, 
and  coming  from  Dartmoor  back  to  Yarner  was  like 
coming  home,  out  of  the  cold  world.  Now  I've  run 
through  ten  aching,  tearing  years  in  as  many  weeks.  I'm 
an  old  widow.  Everything's  changed  here  —  every  col- 
our, every  sound,  every  moan  of  branch  rubbing  branch 
to  the  thrust  of  the  wind.  All  the  virtue's  gone  out  of  it. 
I'd  hate  it  if  I  had  strength  to  hate ;  but  I  haven't  got 
even  that.  'Tis  no  more  to  me  than  a  picture  of  old 
agonies.  I  forget  all  the  good  —  'tis  so  little  weighed 
ajrainst  the  bad." 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  375 

"  You  can  think  and  weigh ;  that's  something." 

"  Oh  yes  —  I  can  behave  in  company  now,  I  don't 
hate  and  spurn  this  place  any  more.  I  only  gaze  and  see 
nought,  and  listen  and  hear  nought.  The  life's  out  of  it 
—  the  death's  out  of  it.  What  care  I  for  the  woe  of  the 
woods?  I've  got  my  own.  What  care  I  for  the  joy  of 
the  woods?  Joy's  but  a  ghost  from  the  past  for  me.  I 
only  join  hands  over  work.  They  work  hard,  the  trees 
do.  They've  got  their  own  torments  and  defeats  and 
failures.  They  be  real  creatures,  only  they  know  how  to 
keep  their  counsels  better  than  us.  I'll  never  see  another 
spring  among  'em  —  'twould  be  unfit.  I  can't  neighbour 
with  spring  and  bud-break  now.  I  belong  to  winter 
for  evermore." 

They  walked  upward,  and  he  spoke  again. 

"  The  memory  of  him  mustn't  be  winter  —  but  summer. 
Memory's  thin  and  pale  when  'tis  born,  because  reality  is 
still  so  close.  But  'twill  shine  out  stronger  and  lovelier 
for  you,  Drusilla,  as  you  get  further  and  further  away 
from  the  past.  'Twill  take  you  out  of  your  winter  in 
fulness  of  years.  He  was  a  brave  man,  and  did  a  brave 
thing  —  how  brave  I,  that  loved  you,  only  know." 

The  eyes  were  cold  and  grudging  with  which  she  looked 
at  him. 

"  Yes,  he  put  you  before  me.  He  had  to  do  it.  There 
was  no  bravery  —  only  the  cursed,  cruel  need.  I  under- 
stand everything.  I'm  not  a  fool  now  —  whatever  I  have 
been.  He's  no  hero,  nor  nothing  like  that.  There's  the 
bitterness.  He's  only  a  man  —  the  dear,  wonderful  man 
I  loved  and  put  higher  than  the  stars.  But  not  a  hero  — 
just  an  everyday,  honest  man,  that  ran  his  neck  into  a 
noose,  owing  to  the  blood  in  his  veins  and  the  chances 
of  life  playing  on  him  to  make  that  blood  too  hot." 

"  If  it's  ever  in  my  power  to  do  you  a  service,  I'll  move 
mountains  for  you,"  he  said. 

"  Mountains  are  easily  moved,"  she  answered.  "  It's 
not  in  your  power  to  do  me  a  sei'vice.  I've  only  got  a 
grave  to  mind  and  an  old  man  to  see  go  down  to  his. 
Easy  work  for  anybody.  .  .  .  And  you  and  me  —  we'll 


1^6  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

meet  no  more.  We're  only  thorns  to  tear  each  other's 
wounds,  and  that's  a  senseless  thing." 

"  You  tear  no  wound  in  me." 

"  Mine  you  must,  and  will  for  ever.  'Tis  no  time  to  be 
speaking  less  than  the  truth.  We  can  face  truth  now  — 
you  and  me." 

They  walked  a  little  further,  and  it  seemed  that  some 
dull  but  red-hot  instinct  of  animosity  tortured  the  woman. 
This  meeting  had  been  planned  at  his  desire,  and  they 
had  entered  upon  it  pensively  and  temperately.  But  now 
her  emotion  stifled  her.     She  desired  to  be  alone. 

Timothy  Snow  perceived  this,  and  prepared  to  take  his 
everlasting,  farewell  of  her.  He  exhibited  weakness  and 
a  lack  of  self-control.  He  was  broken  and  agitated. 
Even  his  expression  had  changed ;  a  futile  wonder  marked 
it.  There  had  come  bewilderment  into  it ;  and  his  voice 
echoed  the  doubt.  The  very  lines  of  his  mouth  appeared 
to  have  been  softened  —  not  to  benignity  but  stupidity. 
He  still  went  dazed.  The  woman,  on  the  contrary,  had 
risen  to  a  sort  of  callous  power.  Snow  held  out  his 
hand. 

"The  truth,"  he  said — "an  awful  thing — a  thing 
as  awful  as  life  itself.  We've  seen  it  closer  than  most 
people  —  seen  it  and  faced  it  and  gone  down  under  it. 
The  more  truth's  hidden,  the  better  for  the  world.  That's 
why  Nature  hides  the  truth  about  herself  so  close  and 
yields  it  up  so  hard.  Good-bye,  Drusilla.  'Twas  a  cruel 
chance  that  brought  us  together,  and  we've  knocked  one 
another  about  pretty  bad.  I  can't  say  anything  —  my 
understanding  has  gone  w^eak  of  late,  I  can't  hold  on  to 
things  and  look  all  round  them  like  I  did.  Maybe  'twill 
come  back  —  the  power  —  and  maybe  it  won't.  We'll 
part  friends,  Drusilla  ?  " 

"  How  you  can  maunder  on  mazes  me !  "  she  answered, 
"  You  —  that  used  to  be  so  certain  and  clean  in  your 
opinions  —  all  clear-cut  and  sharp-edged.  What  a  blur 
you  be  in  now!  Light  and  shadow  have  run  into  each 
other,  seemingly,  with  you  and  made  a  proper  fog  upon 
your  mind,     'Tis  far  ways  off  that  with  me.     I'm  deep  in 


THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL  377 

the  black,  starless  night  once  for  all,  and  I  know  it.  'Tis 
dark  enough  and  clear  enough.  Good-bye.  Leave  me 
now;  I  want  to  be  all  alone.  I  shall  never  again  set 
foot  in  Yarner  after  to-day." 

She  was  looking  far  beyond  him  into  a  glade  where 
moved  memories  that  concerned  another.  He  still  held 
out  his  hand,  but  she  did  not  see  it,  and  he  dropped  it  to 
his  side. 

"  Good-bye,  good-bye  —  God  go  with  you,  if  there  is  a 
God.  And  let  Him  be  just  for  once,  and  look  on  you 
and  lift  your  life  up  —  such  as  be  left  of  it." 

"  Let  be !  "  she  said.  "  Wish  me  nought.  'Twas  you 
hated  pity  once  —  now  'tis  L" 

Then  she  turned  and  went  away  from  him.  He  stood 
for  a  few  moments  and  stared  around  him  to  decide 
which  way  he  should  leave  the  wood.  He  felt  resent- 
ment at  her  injustice.  His  shattered  nerves  moved  him 
to  emotion,  but  his  pride  restrained  him.  He  stood,  the 
picture  of  indecision ;  then  he  lifted  his  head  up  to  the 
sky,  clenched  his  hands  for  one  moment  and  drew  in 
his  breath.  But  he  soon  relaxed ;  his  head  came  down 
again  and  his  hands  fell  to  his  sides.  He  crept  ofif,  and 
his  mind  was  smouldering  and  sulky.  He  struck  about 
him  irritably  with  his  stick,  and  once  he  stopped  and 
looked  back  as  though  minded  to  seek  the  w^oman  again. 
Her  gloomy  strength  appalled  him  —  he  who  had  been 
strong  and  was  strong  no  more.  He  began  to  make  haste 
and  leave  Yarner.  At  the  edge  of  it  he  stood  again, 
looked  back  and  heard  distant  noises  that  mingled  in  his 
ear.  There  was  a  baying  hound  in  the  woods  and  a 
woman's  voice  lifted  to  it;  a  remote  axe  tolled  like  a 
bell ;  the  wind  came  through  the  pines,  and  a  wood-pigeon 
uttered  its  broken  harmony  among  them.  As  the  moan 
of  a  far-off  dirge,  deep  echoing  from  the  secret  places 
of  the  forest,  those  sounds  throbbed  together;  and  he 
listened  awhile  to  them,  then  went  slowly  away. 

Elsewhere  Drusilla,  moving  with  darkness,  took  her 
soul  amid  the  patient  trees,  her  tragic  spirit  through 
the  first  punctual  observances  of  another  spring.     Law 


3/8  THE  FOREST  ON  THE  HILL 

reigned  as  ever  around  her,  where  she  traversed  a  mi- 
crocosm of  the  wide  world;  for  instability  and  universal, 
vital  change  —  sweet  as  the  deep,  salt  sea  —  ebbed  and 
flowed  about  her  path.  She  was  part  of  a  becoming  that 
would  never  become,  even  as  the  heart  of  man  is  for 
ever  breaking,  but  broken  never.  She  saw  Life  wheel 
its  mazy,  myriad  patterns  once  again ;  she  felt  Death 
move  beside  him  —  Death  the  gleaner,  gathering  the  dust 
that  would  burn  on  Life's  ever-burning  hearth  to-morrow. 
From  earth  and  air  and  the  universal  elements  was  the 
staple  of  Yarner  still  growing.  They  poured  down 
upon  it  and  maintained  it ;  and  out  of  them  there  fell 
a  thought  that  touched  the  woman's  heart  with  wan 
comfort,  because  it  brought  the  dead  a  little  nearer. 

For  one  instant  a  misty  gleam  of  understanding  flashed 
from  the  forest  upon  Drusilla's  ken  ;  for  a  moment  reality 
raised  a  veil  and  showed  her  face,  permanent  and  im- 
perishable, lit  by  a  ray  of  the"  truth  absolute  that  homes 
beyond  all  haunts  of  men.  And  the  sad  traveller  saw 
reality  as  a  spirit,  flying  forward  for  ever  and  resting 
upon  no  solid  earth ;  she  perceived  that  in  Winter  reality 
sojourns  with.  Spring,  that  when  Spring  is  come,  she 
belongs  to  Summer.  For  reality  can  only  be  felt,  not 
seen,  not  heard,  not  verified ;  she  roams  far  from  the 
substantial,  the  sure-founded,  the  proven ;  she  dwells 
rather  with  motion  and  emotion,  with  anticipation  and 
suspension,  with  the  rising  and  setting  stars,  with  that 
purple  glory  of  the  distant  hills  all  men  have  seen,  none 
trodden.  She  harbours  not  with  darkness  but  light ;  a 
frozen  soul  is  no  habitation  for  her ;  she  wings  with  the 
dayspring  and  the  rainbow ;  she  shares  the  substance  of 
human  dreams  and  inspirations  ;  she  is  one  with  the  ideals 
and  beacons  and  golden  hopes  that  reign  for  ever  in 
mankind's  unconquerable,  heart. 


THE  END 


/ 


6 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

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